


Love’s the Burning Boy

by BrighteyedJill



Series: Love's the Burning Boy [1]
Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angst, Friendship, Government Agencies, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Moral Ambiguity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-10
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 16:32:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 39,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Obvious thanks go to GLMX for pinch-hitting, and to my betas Willow and Jaune Chat.  Also, thanks to the <a href="http://heroes-bigboom.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://heroes-bigboom.livejournal.com/"></a><b>heroes_bigboom</b> organizers for letting me play in the sandbox. I’m honored to be the last one to put the icing on the Big Boom cake, or the bow on the Big Boom present, or whatever one does at the end of a fabulous orgy of epic fanfic.<br/><b>Warnings:</b> violence, hints of non-con, bad language, angst, fictional relatives in lust (that means incest), manipulation of the laws of probability for purposes of dramatic tension. </p><p><b>Art link:</b> <a href="http://tenebris.org/x__art/heroes_burning.htm"> GLMX’s illustration </a>(slightly spoiler-y for the story, but not much)<br/></p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Obvious thanks go to GLMX for pinch-hitting, and to my betas Willow and Jaune Chat. Also, thanks to the [](http://heroes-bigboom.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://heroes-bigboom.livejournal.com/)**heroes_bigboom** organizers for letting me play in the sandbox. I’m honored to be the last one to put the icing on the Big Boom cake, or the bow on the Big Boom present, or whatever one does at the end of a fabulous orgy of epic fanfic.  
>  **Warnings:** violence, hints of non-con, bad language, angst, fictional relatives in lust (that means incest), manipulation of the laws of probability for purposes of dramatic tension. 
> 
> **Art link:** [ GLMX’s illustration ](http://tenebris.org/x__art/heroes_burning.htm)(slightly spoiler-y for the story, but not much)  
> 

Nathan Petrelli wrinkled his nose as a gust of wind circulated the smells of the auction. He hated these places, not only for the stink and the dirt, but for the despair and pain that seemed to press against him and impede his movement as surely as the crowd of other buyers. He flipped his collar up against the wind, and pushed toward his destination.

 

There was no one Nathan knew in the crowd. Still, he felt no temptation to remove his dark glasses, his baseball cap. He didn’t expect to be recognized here, in this out-of-the-way venue, a few thousand miles from home, but there was always a chance. Mohinder had warned him repeatedly about the dangers of making these trips himself, but Nathan deemed it an acceptable risk. He had to do this personally. He did not trust anyone else to make sure.

 

The crowd in front of Nathan was thinning as customers peeled off, heading to check out the lots they were most interested in. It didn’t matter to Nathan where he started: he’d examine all the merchandise here, just to be certain. He turned left, randomly, which put him in a row of merchants whose goods were high end, luxury items. Good enough for Speaker of the House Petrelli, if _he_ was here, but _he_ was not. _He_ was sequestered at his Westchester estate, mulling over next session’s budget proposals, of course.

 

The vendors’ eyes slid over Nathan, with his long coat and scruffy cap, looking for richer prey. Still, he ventured into each tent to see what was displayed. He had no particular feeling of hope, but neither did he feel particularly discouraged. He was simply doing what had to be done, relentlessly, methodically, secure in the knowledge that if he put enough effort and attention to this problem, he would find what he was looking for. He had to.

 

In the third tent, he saw something that might be promising. Nathan approached the vendor, turning on a buyer’s attitude, the confidence and swagger that came naturally. “You, there. There’s something I’d like to see.”

 

The vendor turned to Nathan, taking in his appearance, analyzing his buying potential. Apparently, he was unimpressed. “You’re sure that this is the type of merchandise you’re looking for?” he asked with a slight curling of his lip.

 

“I’m sure.” Nathan pulled a permit card from his pocket to show the vendor: a Type Ten Owners and Buyers License, the kind that permitted its holder to obtain and handle any class of slave, from the most docile to the most dangerous. The vendor’s eyes widened as Nathan handed him the card. Type Ten permits were rarely issued to private citizens, so Nathan didn’t blame him for being surprised, or suspicious. This permit, however, was mostly legitimate: obtained from the Department of Homeland Security by some obscure friend of Mohinder’s, and registered to the fictional “Nate Parker.” The vendor handed it back to Nathan.

 

“Right this way, sir,” he said smoothly as he led the way to the pen where his merchandise was displayed. There were half a dozen men and women in the cage, standing politely at attention, eyes downcast. Their subservience, their placid acceptance didn’t bother Nathan any more. He’d grown numb to it, as he had to the pitiful stares and occasional screaming or begging of the slaves who inhabited the slums of such auctions. “What is it you’d like to see, sir?”

 

Nathan pointed to the man on the end whose dark, untidy hair dangled in front of his eyes. “That one.”

 

“Excellent choice, sir. Nine, present,” the vendor called. The slave Nathan had pointed out stepped forward, bringing his chin up and adjusting his gaze to a point somewhere behind Nathan. He was all long-limbed grace, with smooth, pale skin marred only by the single helix tattoo on the inside of his right wrist that marked him as a slave, but his eyes were blue, and the face… Fine-boned and handsome, but not _him_. “Twenty four years old. Had only two owners. Docile, very obedient. Excellent bedroom skills. His previous owner--.”

 

“Not interested,” Nathan interrupted. He walked out of the tent without a backward glance. That man wasn’t the one Nathan was looking for. That man wasn’t his brother.  


* * *

 

In his lab in the basement of the Petrelli estate in Westchester, Mohinder Suresh listened to the hum of the centrifuge, thinking about karma. And forgiveness. And redemption. Wondering if there was any for him out there in the world. He wanted to believe there was, considering what he did these days: puttering around his lab, toying with medicines and genes, throwing each small effort into the pit, the great chasm of his mistake, his sin that could not be repaired any more than it could be forgotten.

 

In fairness, the mistake had not been his alone. History would surely not call Mohinder Suresh the architect of this tragedy. But bearing his part of the guilt was more than enough for Mohinder. He had no sympathy to spare for the actions of people like Linderman, Bennett, and even Nathan, who had calculated and constructed this outcome, who had engineered the enslavement of every person of special ability all over the world. They had made the plan, but it would have been useless without a way to carry it out, without a way for _homo sapiens sapiens_ to subdue and control their genetic superiors.

 

It was Mohinder’s research that had provided the solution to this evolutionary problem: a drug that effectively repressed special abilities by inhibiting the body’s capability to read the part of the genetic code that provided those abilities. Molly Walker’s condition had given him the idea; from there it was only a matter of putting together the pieces. The result could have been a cure, or at least a tool. But it was a double edged sword: the drug was dangerous, destroying the body’s ability to read genetic code at all as it withdrew from the body. The only way to prevent the destruction was to keep intake of the drug at constant levels. Terrible news for Mohinder, but a happy turn of events for those who sought a way to manage the increasing number of “special” humans.

 

In practice, it was simple. The subject takes a pill, a miracle “Cure.” Within 24 hours, he loses the ability to access his powers. Then the drug takes its toll. If the subject doesn’t get another dose every 24 hours thereafter, he will die in terrible agony. Withdrawal always ended in death, the tests found. Theoretically, toward the end, subjects might be able to access their powers as the drug cleared the system, but by that point in the withdrawal, they were usually too busy screaming to answer testers’ questions.

 

Mohinder knew now how naive they’d been, both him and Chandra, to think they could make their list and keep control of it only for the good. He thought briefly of Oskar Schindler, whose list had meant life for the Jews his government was killing and enslaving. The Sureshes’ list had been the opposite: used by the government to condemn those it listed. That’s how the Department of Homeland Security had found the evolved humans, one by one: each was on the list Mohinder had so painstakingly created. In fact, his genetic algorithm had been so good that it continued to produce new names: children and young adults whose powers had not yet manifested.

 

Now, each new entry on the list was detained, condemned to a life of slavery, for national security purposes, of course, and given a strict regimen of Cure. The government was the only authorized distributor of the drug, and they provided it to licensed owners only for the number of slaves they held. As Nathan had pointed out during Congressional debate of the budget for Cure manufacture, the measure ensured security for the public. There would be no escaped super-humans. If a slave missed a dose of the Cure he might die, sure, but the public would be safe.

 

If Nathan felt bad about his part in condemning all evolved humans to slavery, he never showed Mohinder his remorse. Nathan had a peculiar blind spot, Mohinder had noticed, when it came to the well-being of those outside Nathan’s inner circle. But for those inside the circle… Mohinder sighed. Well, for those inside the circle, Nathan had that stupid kind of loyalty that led him to take these ridiculous trips, like this weekend’s jaunt to a slave auction on Chicago’s south side, chasing another improbable tip from an anonymous informant.

 

Mohinder was left to hold down the fort in Westchester, escaping for the weekend from the needy press of NYU students and lab assistants. He would have been here anyway, in all likelihood. For once, he might actually be able to do something useful, something good. One of his experiments seemed as if it might actually be working. He’d tried it on a few special people, slaves who worked on the Petrelli estate. It hurt to lie to them, to tell them that he was simply field-testing a less dangerous version of Cure, but he’d found out what he needed to know, and returned them to their regular dosages of ability-blocking drugs. Now it was time to see if this new formula could really work, could really restore to a person his special abilities and real freedom.

 

The centrifuge slowed to a halt. The latest batch of medicine was done. He reached for his cell phone, dialed a number from memory. It only rang once.

 

“Speak.”

 

“Hiro. I have it.”  


* * *

It was raining. Peter didn’t mind the rain, usually, but this pen had a dirt floor, rapidly turning to mud now, spattering his bare feet and soaking his thin cotton pants. A malodorous wind blew through the pens, making him shiver. He wondered if he could catch pneumonia out here and get sick enough to be sent to a hospital. He should be so lucky.

 

Modified from outdoor dog kennels, these pens housed a single slave each. It made sense to separate them, Peter supposed. Many of the slaves in this lot were unpredictable, dangerous despite not being able to use their special abilities. Dangerous in the way all caged animals are dangerous. Everyone here was damaged, somehow. You didn’t get to this end of the auction grounds if you were valuable. The next stop after this was fighting sports, dangerous manual labor, medical testing, the very worst kind of brothels.

 

Peter knew the odds of someone buying his contract today were slim. His record now had a big red flag on it, thanks to his behavior two nights ago. Other than that, he wasn’t low quality merchandise. Well-used, maybe, but “skilled and experienced” was how a vendor would spin it. A vendor might have a harder time explaining away Peter’s injuries, though. A cracked rib, he was pretty sure. His left ankle throbbed, but he could walk on it, so it wasn’t broken. Other parts of him were sore, too. He longed for a time when these hurts would have healed instantly. He didn’t so much mind the pain this time. It meant he had put up a good fight. He hadn’t put up a fight since… a long time ago. It frightened him that he had it in him to accept, to be so complacent. Not any more, though.

 

Wherever he went after this auction, Peter promised himself, he wouldn’t go quietly. It might be that a private owner would find him too good a bargain to pass up, discounted as he was. Of course, that private owner would have to be licensed to handle Class D slaves. Yesterday, Peter had watched in a mixture of defiance and alarm as his former owner signed the paperwork to change Peter from a Class C “difficult behavior” slave to a Class D “violent and disobedient” slave, ensuring that his future was very bleak and, likely, very short. His new classification meant his owner had to have a Type Ten slave-owning license. Mostly, those were issued to organizations that specialized in handling violent and disobedient slaves. That was not where Peter wanted to end up, especially considering that he was still, he knew, pretty. He wondered if things would be different if he could disfigure himself somehow. Slice his face, or something. Would he meet a different end if every buyer who examined him didn’t see bedroom eyes, an aristocratic face, long, slender fingers?

 

Peter was half-seriously examining his cage for any sharp edges when he heard voices approaching. He turned to face the aisle where the vendor, a short, weasely man, was approaching with a potential buyer. Peter tried to guess the customer’s type: acquirer for a brothel, maybe. The slaves he was looking at as he made his way down the aisle were the pretty ones, not the strong ones. He was well-dressed or, at least, better dressed than the vendor. Walked with confidence but, unlike the vendor, didn’t carry a tazer for disciplining slaves. Maybe he didn’t need one, or maybe he was overconfident. Peter had the sinking feeling that he might find out.

 

The pair stopped in front of Peter’s cage, and the vendor handed his customer a clipboard, probably Peter’s stats. “You acquired this one yesterday?” the customer asked, studying the papers.

 

“That’s right, sir. Just came on the market. High quality merchandise for the price, let me tell you. Maybe a touch spirited, but nothing a gentleman like yourself couldn’t handle, I’m sure.”

 

“He was just bumped down a class. Tell me what happened.” Before the vendor could open his mouth, the man amended, “What really happened.”

 

“An isolated incident, according to the report,” the vendor began carefully. “He got between an owner and another slave.”

 

“Hurt anyone?”

 

“Well, the owner and a security guard both sustained some injuries,” the vendor admitted. “But between you and me, I think the former owner wasn’t much of a disciplinarian. With the right handling, this one could be a good investment.”

 

The buyer considered for a minute. “I want to see all of him.”

 

“Certainly, sir.” To Peter, the vendor called, “Strip.”

 

Peter automatically reached for his shirt. He thought, momentarily, of refusing, of testing his new resolve, but resistance would win him nothing here. There would be a time to fight, later. He pulled his shirt, which was soaked through anyway, over his head, and let it drop into the mud. His pants followed, coming off with practiced ease, and he stood, hands at his sides, watching the customer examine him. At first, this had been one of the most difficult skills to master, harder than any of the “bedroom skills” he was later expected to display. He had hated to be looked at, appraised, scrutinized, hated the casual entitlement of those who saw him as a possession. Now it no longer bothered him.

Peter knew he wasn’t in as good of shape as he had been even a month ago. He was thinner, almost gaunt. There were bruises all over his torso from being kicked into unconsciousness two days ago. He was favoring his left ankle, instead of presenting in an even stance as was proper. And of course, they’d shaved his head when they processed him for sale to this vendor. It felt strange to have no hair to brush out of his eyes. He had no way to know how it looked, but he imagined the cut was less than flattering.

 

The buyer looked him up and down. “He’s too skinny,” he said.

 

“His former owner tried to starve him into good behavior,” the vendor explained. “He’ll gain the weight back, on a proper diet.”

 

“Let me see him, then.” The man was feigning indifference, but Peter, and probably the vendor, too, knew he was at least marginally interested.

 

The vendor produced a key and undid the cage’s padlock. The door was only half height, a holdover from when dogs were kept here, so Peter had to crawl out onto the cement aisle, where he knelt on his haunches before the two men, demurely keeping his eyes lowered.

 

The man squatted in front of him and stuck a hand in his face, pulling back Peter’s lips to examine his teeth. Peter thought of Doctor Bausch, the orthodontist who had removed Peter’s braces when he turned thirteen, saying, “You take care of these babies, now. They’ll do you good someday.” This probably wasn’t what Doctor Bausch had in mind. Peter suppressed a shiver as the man ran a hand down his chest, but he told himself it was only because he was kneeling naked on cement in the rain. The man pressed against the darkest of Peter’s bruises, and Peter gasped as he felt the cracked rib give a little.

 

“He’s injured,” the man grumbled at the vendor, a note of accusation in his voice.

 

“Well, that’s why he’s discounted, sir. And he’ll heal,” the vendor said amicably.

 

“All fours,” the man snapped at Peter. He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, fixing his gaze on the ground a few feet ahead of him. He hated this part.

 

“He’s disease free,” the vendor said as he watched the buyer snap on a pair of latex gloves. “We did blood tests when they brought him in yesterday.”

 

“Uh huh.” The man rested one hand on the back of Peter’s neck, reminding him to hold still, while his other hand snaked between Peter’s legs, grabbed his cock and stroked it, coldly, clinically. Peter gritted his teeth and tamped down the familiar swell of shame that came from this part of a buyer’s evaluation. “He has some training?” he asked the vendor as he cupped Peter’s balls.

 

“That he does,” the vendor confirmed eagerly. “Apparently had quite a client base at a previous owner’s establishment.”

 

“Hm.” The man let go of Peter’s balls, then slid a hand around to trace the curve of Peter’s ass. He pressed one dry finger to Peter’s entrance, applying firm pressure until he breeched the hole, burying his gloved finger inside. Peter gasped in sharp, unexpected pain, and the man withdrew his finger. “Shhh,” he said, stroking Peter’s naked flank like he was a frightened horse. “He’s torn inside,” he told the vendor.

 

The vendor’s eyes widened in feigned surprise. “My goodness. I had no idea. Well, I suppose I could knock another five hundred off the price, but he’ll heal in no time. Other than that, he’s an excellent piece of stock.” The vendor was moving in for the close, now. “You’re welcome to a demonstration, if you’re interested.”

 

The man smiled slightly, and Peter tensed. “Thanks. I’ve got some other merchandise to examine today, though.” He gave Peter a lingering look. “I’ll see where I am after I make my other purchases. This one may be worth the trouble.”

 

“He won’t be any trouble to an experienced handler, sir,” the vendor said with a soothing smile. He waved a hand at Peter to return to his cage. Peter didn’t move. “Back,” said the vendor firmly, pointing toward the cage.

 

Peter weighed his options for the moment, and decided that he didn’t want another beating right now, didn’t want to feel the burn of a tazer searing into his skin. The vendor would have to punish him if he hesitated much longer, since a potential buyer was present. So Peter swallowed his defiance and crawled back into his muddy cage. There would be a time to fight, Peter told himself again. He would be ready.  


* * *


	2. Chapter 2

For the fourth time, Mohinder checked the address on the scrap of paper in his hand. He didn’t know this part of Brooklyn, and suddenly he was debating the wisdom of coming here by himself at night. He shifted his briefcase to his left hand and was reaching for his cell phone when he saw a black man walk out of the shadows and approach him. He seemed vaguely familiar, but Mohinder couldn’t place him.

 

“You Suresh?” the man asked when he was close enough. Mohinder nodded warily. “Okay. Follow me,” he said, and headed off down the street at a brisk pace.

 

Mohinder didn’t have much of a choice, really; if he wanted to meet with Hiro, he would have to play by Hiro’s rules, so he followed. The man led him through back alleys and empty lots, with Mohinder looking around nervously every few seconds, until they reached a dead end where a high brick wall impeded their progress. The stranger turned to Mohinder. “Give me your briefcase,” he said.

 

“I’d rather not,” said Mohinder. “There are delicate materials inside.”

 

“So you don’t want to drop it,” the man said calmly, and held out his hand. Reluctantly, Mohinder passed him the case with the drugs inside. “Thank you.” The man took the briefcase in one hand and with the other grabbed Mohinder firmly by the wrist and pulled him forward, toward the wall.

 

Mohinder pulled back in alarm, but the other man’s grip was strong, and Mohinder found himself stumbling forward into the wall, then _into_ the wall, as he felt a sickening sensation of falling, of being squeezed from all sides. Then it was over, and he stumbled to a halt on the other side of the wall under the watchful eye of his companion.

 

“What—?” Mohinder began, but couldn’t find strong enough words to ask what the hell had just happened.

 

The man gave him a mirthless smile. “There are a few—just a few of us—in Hiro’s group who were never caught. Who never got ‘Cured.’” He said the word with such venom, Mohinder shrank from it, but the man had turned away again. They made their way down one more alley before the man grabbed Mohinder’s wrist again and pulled him through a metal door. This time, Mohinder was able to brace himself for the vertigo-inducing trip, but it was still disorienting, to say the least. Up two flights of stairs and down a hallway, the man returned Mohinder’s briefcase and knocked on the door of apartment 144.

 

“Come in,” called a muffled voice. 

 

The man opened the door and gestured for Mohinder to precede him. The apartment was mostly bare: a card table occupied by a jumble of laptops and cables, and a few folding chairs occupied by a handful of people who fixed Mohinder with suspicious stares. Mohinder’s eyes darted quickly to wrists, noting slave tattoos on a few of those present. Then the group parted; Hiro Nakamura turned away from the computers, and almost smiled. “Mohinder,” he said softly. 

 

“We weren’t followed,” said the man who had escorted Mohinder, closing the door behind them. “I guarantee it.”

 

“Thank you, D.L.” Hiro said. “Would you please tell the others that Doctor Suresh is here?” The man, D.L. apparently, nodded and disappeared through a door on the far side of the apartment. Hiro turned to Mohinder. “It’s good to see you.” 

 

“You as well, Hiro,” said Mohinder. And it was good to see him. Hiro looked older, less shiny-optimistic than he had when they’d first met. His English was excellent now, even if he still spoke with a slight accent. There was also the helix tattoo peeking out from cuff on Hiro’s sleeve. It pained Mohinder a little to see this calm, confident Hiro, so much changed by the events of the past several years. Mohinder took a few steps toward his old acquaintance, but then stood awkwardly, either unwilling or unable to instigate a handshake or a hug in front of strangers.

 

“It’s good you came today,” Hiro said finally, and the others in the room began to talk amongst themselves again, ending the discomforting scrutiny. “We just returned from a rescue mission.”

 

“Rescue?” Mohinder said, alarmed. “Hiro, are you sure you should be risking--.”

 

“There are things I can do without bending time and space, Mohinder,” he said with an ironic smile. “It doesn’t take powers to be a hero. Besides, today we had some help. I think you should know that…” Hiro trailed off as the door at the far end of the apartment opened, admitting D.L. and three other men. “Well. You’ll see.”

 

Two of the newcomers were strangers, but the third… The third Mohinder would know anywhere. It was not possible to forget the face of evil, the face of his father’s killer. He took an involuntary step back and glanced in alarm at Hiro. “What’s _he_ doing here?” he asked, pointing an accusing finger at Sylar.

 

Hiro said calmly, “He’s one of us, Mohinder.”

 

“Sylar’s a killer!” Mohinder snapped. 

 

The others in the room shifted uncomfortably at his blatant hostility. D.L. made a threatening move toward Mohinder, but Sylar put a hand out to stop him. “Gabriel. It’s Gabriel, now,” he told Mohinder gently. 

 

“You’re still a murderer,” Mohinder spat back. “Hiro, what--?”

 

“Gabriel is part of my team,” Hiro explained quickly. “I was going to tell you.” Sylar approached Hiro, laid a comforting hand on his arm, and murmured something in another language—Japanese? “No, stay,” Hiro replied. Then, to Mohinder, “Trust me, Professor. He is on our side.”

 

Mohinder took a deep, calming breath without taking his eyes off Sylar. “I trust you, Hiro.”

 

“Thank you,” Hiro said sincerely. “Gabriel’s been with us for months. He helped us free this last group. We retrieved seven people and didn’t lose any of our own, for the first time. We would have lost some, if Gabriel had not been there.”

 

“Those of us who still have our powers have a chance to really change things,” D.L. added.

 

Mohinder shook his head in disbelief. “Sylar still has his _powers_?” 

 

“Mohinder, please,” Hiro approached him carefully, spoke imploringly. “Gabriel is a part of this team. He uses his powers for good.”

 

“It’s stolen power,” Mohinder snapped.

 

“I can’t change that, Mohinder,” Sylar said softly. “But I can use what I’ve taken to help those who can still be helped. You need me.”

 

Mohinder opened his mouth to continue the argument, but a pleading look from Hiro silenced him. If Hiro trusted Sylar, that should be enough. Besides, Sylar was right. If they were going to change anything, they needed him, needed anyone who still had their special abilities. 

 

“Mohinder, we have work to do,” Hiro reminded him. Mohinder nodded, dropping the Sylar issue for the time being. “We must go meet the ones we rescued today. They’re expecting us soon.”

 

Mohinder spoke softly, only for Hiro although, he remembered with an internal wrench of the gut, Sylar had the power of excellent hearing. “Are there any… Anyone who…?”

 

“We got one of the ones I was looking for. You might remember him. The rest…” Hiro shrugged. “We will have to see.” He turned to the others, who had been watching tensely. “I’m taking the Professor to meet our guests. D.L., come with us. Gabriel, you are in charge while we’re gone.” If Hiro noticed Mohinder’s stricken look at that, he didn’t comment. “Keep them safe, Gabriel,” he said.

 

“I will,” said Sylar.

 

As Mohinder followed Hiro and D.L. out the door, he couldn’t resist one last accusatory glance at Sylar who, to his surprise, was looking after them with regret.

* * *

This vendor was less well-kempt than the one Nathan had talked to earlier. He was short-ish, with a greasy moustache and close-set eyes that reminded Nathan of a rodent. If he’d been wearing a plaid suit, he would have been the quintessential used car dealer. Well, the slaves here were certainly used: injured, sickly, or otherwise defective. Not everyone could adapt to life as a slave; those who wouldn’t stop fighting, or who collapsed under the stress ended up here. There were three rows of cages; even though each cage contained only one slave, there were more slaves here than at any vendor Nathan had visited today. As always, more ended up at the bottom of the heap than on top. 

 

“Are you looking for anything special?” asked the vendor. Nathan found the man’s oily politeness grating.

 

“Male. Not old.”

 

“Over eighteen?” The vendor raised an eyebrow lecherously to illustrate his meaning.

 

“Probably,” Nathan said, keeping his face impassive. “I want to see what’s available.”

 

“It would help if I knew what you wanted to use him for. Some of these,” he waved a derisive hand at the rows of cages, “are unsuited for certain kinds of work. Others require… a firm hand.”

 

“I have a firm hand,” Nathan said grimly. “Let me see the merchandise.”

 

The vendor nodded reluctantly, and led Nathan down a cement aisle toward the first row of cages. To the vendor’s annoyance, Nathan walked slowly, glancing at each slave, stopping to examine a few. In the past three years, Nathan had tried to avoid imagining what kind of slave Peter would be. Ugly scenarios came to mind too easily. There was also the possibility, worse maybe, that Peter would be one of those who thrived in slavery. That Peter was somewhere safe, happy, valued. That he didn’t need Nathan to ride to his rescue. It was pointless to speculate. Peter would either be at this auction or he wouldn’t, and Nathan would return to Westchester and await the next lead. 

 

As they walked, the vendor pointed out various slaves, describing their qualifications and trying to gauge Nathan’s interest. Nathan provided only one-syllable answers, and soon the vendor stopped trying to make conversation and led the way in silence. In the last row of cages, Nathan noticed a man curled up on his side, his back to the aisle. “I want to look at that one,” Nathan said.

 

The vendor sighed in resignation. He was clearly reluctant to have anything to do with this particular slave. “If you want,” he said. He banged a hand against the chain link door of the cage. “Hey. Get up, you,” he called. After a moment, the slave stumbled to his feet, favoring his right ankle, and turned to face the aisle, eyes fixed on the ground in front of him.

 

At first, Nathan wasn’t sure it was him. It was the hair, probably. Peter had always had those damn bangs dangling in his face. Nathan knew that vendors often shaved slaves’ heads when they acquired them to prevent the spread of lice, but in all his imagining, he hadn’t seen a Peter who looked like this: with only short fuzz covering his scalp, emaciated, wet, and muddy. He looked like a concentration camp victim.

 

“I’ll take this one,” Nathan said. His voice sounded a million miles away, sounded as if it belonged to someone else. 

 

The vendor looked at him in surprise. Nathan hadn’t asked any questions, negotiated a price, or even examined the slave. “This one? He’s a Class D slave, sir,” the vendor began. 

 

Nathan simply flashed his permit, without taking his eyes off Peter. “Get him out of the cage. I’ll take him now.”

 

“Yes sir,” the vendor said, clearly not concerned enough about Nathan’s unusual behavior to pass up the chance of making a sale. He unlocked the cage’s padlock and motioned the slave out. Nathan felt a pang of something—grief, maybe—as he watched Peter crawl through the mud and out of the cage. “Up,” the vendor said, and Peter stood. “Now, if you’d like to have him cleaned up, we have a number of options available for very reasonable prices.”

 

“I’ll take him as is,” Nathan said. 

 

At that, Nathan caught Peter raising his gaze from its proper downward orientation to steal a look at his new owner. When their eyes met, Nathan saw Peter’s face change from guarded curiosity to something darker: darker and very angry. 

 

Nathan didn’t see Peter gather himself, but there he was, pouncing at Nathan, and Nathan fell backwards onto the wet concrete, Peter on top of him. Peter struck at Nathan’s face, but he was weak and, anyway, Nathan had a lot of experience in putting his little brother on his back. Throwing his weight to the side, Nathan was able to flip Peter sideways and come up on top, planting a knee on Peter’s solar plexus and a hand around his throat. “Stop,” he said firmly. Peter stopped struggling, but his eyes didn’t lose their angry fire. Nathan kept his hand on Peter’s throat, but he eased off enough to let his brother breathe.

 

At last, the vendor had his tazer out, brandishing it nervously in front of him, but Nathan forestalled him with his free hand. “It’s fine,” he said calmly. “I’ve got it under control.”

 

“Do you want him sedated for transport?” the vendor asked, somewhat sheepishly.

 

Nathan considered driving back to New York with an enraged Peter. “Yeah. Sedate him,” he said. 

 

The vendor drew a pre-filled syringe from a pack on his belt, and Nathan found he had to work to keep Peter still enough for the vendor to jab him in the arm. Nathan watched Peter as the sedative took effect, but Peter kept staring at him with burning hatred until his eyes drifted shut.

* * *

The safe house where Hiro’s team was keeping the newly rescued slaves turned out to be a perfectly normal-looking brownstone in Queens. Mohinder had nearly lost his dinner when D.L. had driven them _through_ a wall to make sure they weren’t being followed, but other than that, the drive had been uneventful and largely silent.

 

At the door, Hiro knocked, and a voice from inside called out, “Who is it?”

 

“Kensei,” said Hiro, and smiled as Mohinder raised an eyebrow.

 

The door opened, and a relieved-looking Ando Masahashi gestured the three of them into the foyer and quickly closed the door behind them. He raised a curious eyebrow at Mohinder, but said, “I’m glad you made it.”

 

“How are our guests?” Hiro asked.

 

“Not so good,” Ando admitted. “It’s been twelve hours. They are starting to get nervous. Did you bring the pills?” 

 

“I brought something better,” said Hiro and turned to Mohinder. “Ando, you remember Professor Suresh?”

 

“Yes,” Ando said, smiling faintly. Mohinder smiled back. It was good to see Ando again.

 

“He has something that might help us,” Hiro was saying. “I want to tell the others, too.”

 

Ando led them down a narrow hallway to a door at the back of the house, where seven men and women sat silently in a parlor that looked like it had been decorated in the 1950s by someone’s grandmother: awful floral-patterned divans combined with lace doilies and walls of shelves filled with glass bric-a-brac. The slaves, out of place in the mismatched clothes their rescuers had provided, looked exhausted. Mohinder noticed the helix showing on the underside of each person’s right wrist. Some glanced up when Mohinder entered, but others averted their eyes hastily, showing the deference that had kept them alive as slaves. 

 

Ando introduced each of the men and women to Mohinder by name. Most of the names meant nothing to him, but he recognized one: Matt Parkman. Mohinder dimly remembered the name as being on the list. That seemed so long ago it might have been another life. The name, it turned out, belonged to a soft-looking middle-aged man, and when Mohinder looked carefully, he remembered with a start that he knew him, had seen him that night at the Kirby Building. Mohinder could recall vaguely the feel of a gun in his hand as he struck to protect Molly, could remember blood warm under his hands as he tended bullet wounds, could almost see Molly pull away from him to run after the stretcher. If Parkman recognized Mohinder, he gave no sign.

 

“Mohinder, tell them what you told me,” Hiro said. D.L., Ando, and all seven slaves turned to Mohinder expectantly.

 

“I think I have developed an injection that can reverse the effects of Cure,” Mohinder began carefully. D.L. looked skeptically at Hiro, and some of the slaves fidgeted excitedly, but Mohinder pressed on. “It mimics the effects of the Cure to prevent withdrawal symptoms. You can stop taking Cure pills, and the injections will keep you safe, tricking your body into thinking the Cure drug is present while your body clears the Cure from its system. Your powers will start to return, and after two weeks, you can stop taking the injections.”

 

“This can really give people their powers back?” Matt Parkman asked.

 

“I think it can,” Mohinder said solemnly. 

 

“You _think_?” Ando asked.

 

“I’ve tried it on a dozen people already.”

 

“And they got their powers back permanently?” asked one of the slaves, a young-ish red-headed woman whose name Mohinder had already forgotten.

 

Mohinder hesitated. “Theoretically, yes. I couldn’t risk having them tell anyone what the treatment was really for, so I had to return them to their Cure regimen without telling them their powers might have returned.”

 

Many of the slaves looked confused, but D.L. got it right away. “You experimented on slaves without telling them,” he said flatly.

 

“It was the only way,” Mohinder said in a small voice.

 

His audience considered a moment. It was Parkman who broke the silence. “Were there side effects?” he asked.

 

Mohinder shook his head, grateful that he could tell the truth. “Nothing serious. A few headaches, dizziness, some tiredness. Fairly mild withdrawal symptoms, considering the alternative.” 

 

“So now… What?” D.L. looked between Hiro and Mohinder. “You’re going to give all the rebels back their powers so we can take over the world or something?”

 

“Or something,” said Mohinder. 

 

D.L. turned to Hiro. “With your powers, with _everyone’s_ powers, think what we could do.” 

 

Ando stepped forward to join the debate. “You are _not_ injecting Hiro with that. Hiro, we don’t know what it really does!”

 

“I trust Mohinder. He says it will not harm me.”

 

Ando switched to Japanese, and Mohinder watched with growing discomfort as Ando said something quick and disapproving, and Hiro replied calmly. They only spoke for a few moments, but Mohinder got the feeling that the decision of whether or not to try his new treatment rested solely on this exchange.

 

Abruptly, Hiro switched back to English. “It’s worth some risk to regain what we have lost, isn’t it?” 

 

Ando sighed, but he nodded and clapped his friend on the shoulder. Hiro turned back to Mohinder, D.L. and the former slaves. “I am willing to try Mohinder’s new medicine,” he said. “If you do not want to try, we’ll keep you supplied with Cure. But if you want the chance to get your powers back… Who will take this chance with me?”

 

Mohinder felt a twinge in his chest as all seven of the newly freed slaves raised their hands.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

Peter’s head hurt. Actually, most of him hurt. That wasn’t unusual. But he was dry and warm, and that wasn’t how he’d been earlier. He kept his eyes closed for now as he tried to remember what had happened—where he was. He breathed in cautiously, and it was a familiar scent which brought his memories rushing back. Nathan. He opened his eyes. He was lying on a bed in a nondescript, windowless hotel room. Nathan sat in a chair against the opposite wall, watching him, face expressionless. His first instinct, on seeing Nathan, was to go to him, to be held in his arms, to say “Thank god. I’ve missed you.” But that couldn’t happen.

 

Peter took stock of his brother: calm, confident, his suit unwrinkled, his tie loosened just a little. He could have been the Nathan that had first been elected to Congress four years ago. There wasn’t a mark on him from Peter’s earlier attack, and Peter seethed silently to see the evidence of his own weakness. He struggled to pull himself up and threw his legs over the side of the bed. If he had to face his brother, he didn’t want to do it lying down.

 

“Hey Peter,” Nathan said blandly. When it was evident that Peter wasn’t going to answer, Nathan spoke again. “What’s wrong, Pete?”

 

Peter laughed mirthlessly. He ran a hand over his shorn head, and then shook his head helplessly as if that explained everything.

 

“Do you know who I am?” Nathan asked.

 

Peter shrugged.

 

“Oh, the silent treatment. That’s… Great.” Nathan leaned back in his chair, letting a flicker of annoyance show. “What are we, five?”

 

“When I was five, you were in high school,” Peter said. His voice sounded harsh and scratchy even to his own ears.

 

“So you do know who I am,” Nathan said with a smug smile.

 

Peter shrugged in response.

 

Nathan cocked his head to one side, regarding Peter critically. “Wonderful. Back to twenty questions. Cut it out, Peter.”

 

Peter slid forward on the bed, watching his brother suspiciously. “Why did you buy me, Nathan? Did you want something?”

 

“I wanted you to be safe.”

 

Peter spaced out the words of his response deliberately. “I am not safe with you.”

 

“Peter…” Whatever argument Nathan was preparing to deliver died unspoken as Peter slid off the bed and onto the floor in front of Nathan.

 

“This is where I would end up tonight, no matter who bought me,” Peter said quietly. “On my knees. Is this what you wanted?”

 

With a derisive snort, Nathan stood and started for the other side of the room. Peter grabbed his hand to stop him, and Nathan let himself be stopped. Peter smiled, a grim smile that made him look sinister. “I may not be able to read thoughts anymore, big brother, but I know when you’re lying.” He pushed Nathan back into the chair and clutched at the clasp of Nathan’s pants.

 

Nathan grabbed both Peter’s wrists painfully hard. “Stop it, Peter,” he growled.

 

“Make me.” Peter darted forward, pressing his lips to Nathan’s crudely, aggressively. Nathan pulled back in surprise, and then he moved quickly, almost frantically, jumping back out of the chair, pulling Peter up by his wrists, and throwing him onto the bed. Peter lay on his back, panting. “There’s my brother,” he said with a feral smile.

 

“What the hell is wrong with you, Peter?” Nathan aked, a touch of fear coloring his anger. “Stop it.”

 

“Or what?” Peter shot back. “You’ll sell me back into slavery? Fine. Great. Go ahead. It’s not like you can break my heart a second time.”

 

Peter thought he saw a muscle twitch in Nathan’s jaw, but that was it. Nathan just drew himself up regally, spoke calmly. “I’m going to go take a walk. You are going to calm down. When I get back, if you’re ready to talk, we’ll talk.”

 

Peter, his heart still racing, could think of no response to that as Nathan grabbed a jacket from the chair and walked out the room, locking the door behind him from the outside, locking him in like an animal in a cage.

 

Peter lay where he was and realized he was shaking. Was it anger? Hurt? In all his imagined confrontations with his brother, in all the times he’d played this scenario in his head, he hadn’t pictured a Nathan who was so… So much like the Nathan Peter remembered: confident, completely in control, full of entitlement. It was maddening that Nathan could still be that man, still _was_ that man, after all this time. Maddening… And it made Peter just a little homesick.  


* * *

 

The drive from Queens back to the team’s current apartment wasn’t a long one, so Ando didn’t mind driving. He was glad Mohinder was given to brooding; it made Ando feel less bad about letting the scientist sit in the back of the car and think while he and Hiro chatted in Japanese. He thought, briefly, of making an effort to engage Mohinder in conversation, but he couldn’t bear to interrupt Hiro yet.

 

It had been a long time since Ando had seen Hiro this excited. Personally, Ando thought part of it might be giddiness from not having slept in so long. When Hiro was excited, he had always been prone to talk like this, but now his monologues were not about Star Trek and comic books, but about recruiting strategy and retrieval tactics.

 

Ando looked away from the road for a moment to revel in the sight of a happy, animated Hiro. In the midst of a particularly emphatic gesture, Ando caught sight of the helix tattoo on Hiro’s wrist, souvenir of his captivity. A little higher up, there was a small red mark on the inside of Hiro’s elbow where Mohinder had injected him. Ando hoped he’d been right about Mohinder. If anything happened to Hiro… He waited for a pause in Hiro’s chatter, then broke in. “Do you feel any different?”

 

Hiro didn’t pretend not to catch his meaning. “No, not different. I just feel… excited.”

 

“I don’t think that’s one of the side effects,” Ando teased, then grew serious again. “Hiro, are you sure he can be trusted? He flicked his eyes briefly toward the back of the car where Mohinder sat. “Now that he works so closely with…” Ando paused, knowing that the name “Nathan Petrelli” might be understood by Mohinder. “The flying man,” he said finally.

 

Hiro managed a small grin. “The flying man. You don’t trust him, do you?”

 

“You’re the one who said he was a bad guy, Hiro,” Ando said, trying to keep a reasonable tone. “And he has never done anything good for people like you.”

 

“Who, short people?” Hiro asked innocently.

 

Ando glared at him. “Special people. He’s like… Odo. He hates his own kind.”

 

“Maybe he has good reasons for what he does,” Hiro said with an innocent shrug.

 

Ando furrowed his brow; he could tell when his friend was being evasive. “Is that why you keep giving Nath—.” He stopped himself. “Giving the flying man information about his brother?”

 

Hiro’s eyes widened a little, but he said, “I don’t know what you mean.”

 

“Hiro, I know that your contacts feed you lots of information. Whenever you hear about anyone who matches _his_ description, you find a way to get that information to Flying Man.” Hiro tried to hide it, but Ando could see Hiro was surprised he’d figured this out. That irked him a little. “Why are you helping them?” he demanded.

 

“Peter is a hero,” Hiro said with a touch of defensiveness.

 

“So why don’t we go get him?” Ando asked. “Our team could break him out.”

 

“We probably could.” Hiro fell silent for a moment, then said softly, “Andokun… I don’t know what I would do if anything ever happened to you.”

 

Ando didn’t like where this was going. “Hiro, nothing’s going to happen to me,” he said quickly.

 

“I know,” Hiro said. Ando saw a shadow pass over Hiro’s face and thought of the future they’d once visited, in which he had died in the explosion in New York. Was that what haunted Hiro?

 

“Flying Man and Peter… They are a team, like us,” Hiro explained. “I think… I think that maybe if one is broken, the other won’t work.”

 

Ando thought about that for a moment. “And we need them both. For the…?” He hesitated. “For what you’re planning?”

 

Hiro nodded emphatically, displaying that particular blend of earnest seriousness that Ando found so endearing. “So we have to let Flying Man find his brother himself,” Hiro said, pleading with his eyes for his friend to agree.

 

“Okay Hiro,” Ando said with a shake of his head. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”  


* * *

 

 

 

Nathan didn’t fly much anymore. It was an unnecessary risk and, really, Peter had always been the one who encouraged him to use his power. Without him around, there didn’t seem to be much point. A few times, however, like now, he found that feeling the wind on his face helped clear his head. And he could use a clear head right now.

 

Nathan flew higher, not at his full speed, but fast enough, up to where it was colder and much harder to breathe. His hair whipped around his face, and he had to keep his eyes closed against the rushing wind. He wasn’t punishing himself, not really. He was just trying to discipline his body, to rebuke his physical self for the stirring, the need he felt when Peter touched him. When Peter had reached for him it was as if no time had passed, as if there was no grief between them, as if the circumstances weren’t all wrong. As if Peter wasn’t all wrong.

 

In hindsight, Nathan reflected, it would have been a good idea to have given some thought to what would happen if he found Peter on one of these trips of his. He’d made other plans: how he’d hide Peter once he got him, who he’d have to bribe. But this step he hadn’t considered. Just find Peter and everything would be okay. Was that what he’d been thinking? It was a stupid mistake. Now… Now he wasn’t sure what to do with this person-who-wasn’t-his-brother. One thing was certain: Nathan couldn’t leave him alone for too long. Peter was completely unpredictable, and seemed more stubborn now than he’d been ever before… Before.

 

When Nathan finally felt close to blacking out, he headed down, gulping in oxygen-rich air. He touched down in a soybean field behind their motel. On this desolate stretch of highway somewhere in rural Ohio, there was no one to see him land. He walked to the front of the building, brushing condensation off his suit. At the door of his room, he listened for a moment, trying to figure out what Peter was doing in there. He couldn’t hear anything, and there was no point in delaying any more. He unlocked the door, went in, and bolted it behind him.

 

Peter wasn’t in the main room, but the bathroom door was shut. Nathan peeled off his soaked jacket and flung it onto a chair. “Peter,” he called. There was no answer. Nathan tried the handle: unlocked. He opened the door and walked into a room full of steam. Through the haze, he could see the outline of his brother. It was a familiar, a longed-for sight. Nathan pressed his thumbnail into the pad of his hand and tried to concentrate on that pain, on the discomfort of his soaked-through clothes, on anything but how it felt to see Peter like this again.

 

Opening the door had let out much of the steam, and as the room cleared, Peter turned to see who had come in. Nathan caught a breath and held it as he saw the marks on Peter’s body: cuts and bruises, some partially healed, some still a hideous purple. One pattern on Peter’s side looked like a boot impression. And there was the slave tattoo, the helix, its black in sharp contrast to the pale skin of Peter’s wrist. Nathan dug his thumbnail harder into his hand.

 

“Get a good look?” Peter snapped before grabbing a towel and wrapping it around his too-skinny hips.

 

“You’re hurt,” Nathan replied calmly.

 

“You’re a genius, Nathan.” Peter stepped out of the shower and tried to push his way out the door. Nathan blocked him.

 

“I can call a doctor,” Nathan said.

 

“Why bother? I’m not that valuable of a slave.” Peter tried again to leave, and Nathan stepped in front of him a second time.

 

“Come on, Pete. I could have bought a car for what I paid for your contract.” Peter gave him a dirty look. “Well, a small car.” This time Nathan let Peter push past him, and followed his brother into the room, grimacing when Peter picked up his muddy slave uniform. “Peter, those are filthy,” he said in disgust.

 

Peter just stopped where he was and dropped his hands to his sides. “Did you want me to go without clothes then, _master?_ ” he asked spitefully.

 

Nathan was sure he was drawing blood with his nail. He spoke through clenched teeth. “I brought you some things.” He unlocked one of the drawers of the dresser next to the bed and pulled out a small duffel bag, which he tossed to Peter. “I packed this a while ago. In case I found you one of these times.”

 

Peter considered Nathan warily for a moment, then unzipped the bag. Although he hadn’t looked in it for months, Nathan was intimately familiar with every item it held. In the first year of Peter’s absence, he’d taken the bag out often, handled each item so much that Peter’s smell was gone from them, now. Nathan watched Peter look through the bag with a mixture of hope and embarrassment. On top was a well-worn button-up Oxford, one of Peter’s favorites. Then came corduroy slacks, comfortable if a little shoddy, a neatly-folded pair of boxers, plain white socks, his scruffy tennis shoes. Peter took the clothes out and dropped them onto the bed, but the bag wasn’t empty. In the bottom was Peter’s wallet, a bottle of the hair gel he had always used, a copy of _King Lear_ , which had been on the bedside table in his apartment the night he disappeared, and a framed picture of the two brothers, taken at Nathan’s wedding, which had also been on Peter’s bedside table. Nathan thought he heard Peter’s breath catch in his throat, but he couldn’t be sure.

 

Then, abruptly, Peter took the clothes from the bed, shoved them back into the bag, and tossed it all back to Nathan. “I don’t want any of this,” he said coldly.

 

Nathan’s heart sank. He didn’t know what that meant, exactly, but it couldn’t be good. “Fine. I have some extra clothes.” He took from another locked drawer the clothes he’d worn earlier while posing as a buyer: plain grey Dockers and a flannel shirt.

 

Peter pulled them on carelessly, keeping his eyes on Nathan as he did so. The clothes were too big, and made him look even skinnier than he was. They were the wrong clothes for Peter, anyway: wrong clothes, wrong hair, wrong person. He sat on the bed stiffly, his rigid pose reminding Nathan of an oversized doll, just staring at Nathan as if determined not to take any further action until ordered to do so. This was going to be a long night.

 

They couldn’t just sit there in a staring contest, though, so Nathan chose to fold, turning his back on Peter for a moment to grab his cell phone out of his jacket. It was a little damp, but still working and getting a signal, even out here in the middle of nowhere. Ignoring Peter’s eyes on him, Nathan spoke into the phone: “Mandy, Westchester.”

 

The phone dialed, and his assistant picked up right away. “It’s me,” Nathan said. “I’m going to be home tomorrow afternoon. Get the special guest room ready. Yes, the east wing.” He thought for a moment, then strolled a few feet across the room, giving himself the illusion of privacy, even if he knew Peter could hear every word. “Do me a favor, too. Get a lock put on it. No, the outside. Uh huh. By the time I get back. Well, tell him I’ll call him Monday. No.”

 

It was a noise that alerted Nathan. One instant, Peter had just been sitting there. The next moment he was at the door, throwing the deadbolt back, turning the knob, wrenching the door open. Nathan dropped the phone and reached for Peter, catching the back of his shirt. Nathan pulled him back inside roughly, slamming the door with his foot on the way in. Peter struggled, taking them both down to the ground.

 

“Mister Petrelli? Mister Petrelli, are you all right?” Mandy’s voice came through the phone, high and tinny.

 

Peter planted a knee in Nathan’s stomach, hard, but Nathan managed to keep hold of Peter’s arm. Peter scrambled backwards, but Nathan still held on, getting his feet back under him and wrapping his other hand around Peter’s ankle. Nathan was bigger and stronger, always had been, and Nathan wondered for a brief moment why Peter was bothering when the outcome was inevitable. Then Peter thrashed wildly, breaking Nathan’s hold on him and got to his feet, darting toward the door. Nathan caught Peter’s arm again, swung him around and shoved him back into the room, putting himself between Peter and the door. The two faced off, both breathing hard.

 

“What the hell’s the matter with you?” Nathan shouted. “What, were you trying to escape?”

 

“Who wouldn’t?” Peter asked sharply.

 

“Right.” Nathan snatched the cell phone from the floor in front of him and snapped it shut angrily. “And where would you go?”

 

“Anywhere. Just away from you.”

 

“Don’t be stupid, Peter,” Nathan said coldly. “I can fly faster than you can run. And I have your pills. You don’t want to die from withdrawal, do you?”

 

“I wouldn’t mind dying if it would get me away from you,” Peter snarled.

 

Nathan stiffened, then steeled himself, refusing to be hurt. “Screw this,” he grumbled under his breath. Nathan strode over to where he’d thrown his jacket and pulled one of the pre-filled syringes out of the small pack he’d purchased at the auction.

 

When he turned back around, Peter had retreated to the far edge of the bed and was watching him warily. “What’s that?” Peter asked.

 

“A sedative. This will be easier for both of us if I can just get you back to New York.” He started toward his brother.

 

Suddenly, Peter was cowering behind the bed. “Please don’t sedate me. Nathan, please.”

 

“It’s just a shot, Peter,” Nathan said, confused at Peter’s lightning-speed mood swing. “I need you to calm down.”

 

“I’m calm. Look.” Peter lowered himself to the floor. “I’ll be good, I promise.”

 

Nathan cringed. “Peter, stop it. It’s just a sedative.”

 

“Don’t. Nathan, please.” Peter was begging.

 

That was not okay. That was not happening. “Peter, come here.” It was the voice Nathan used with dogs, with misbehaving horses, with his sons if they’d been really naughty. Nathan had heard some of the most authoritarian slave owners use it on their slaves; he half-hoped Peter wouldn’t respond to it. But he did. After a long moment of hesitation, Peter picked himself up from the floor, walked across the room to where Nathan was standing, sat down on the edge of the bed, and held out his arm. “Okay…” said Nathan, unsure of whether he’d won or lost. He stuck the needle into Peter’s arm. This time Peter wouldn’t look at him at all as he slid into unconsciousness.  


* * *


	4. Chapter 4

Gabriel Gray toyed with an old clock that had been left in the apartment. He didn’t have the correct tools, really, to do the job right, but he got a certain satisfaction from poking around the antique gears. All the other members of Hiro’s team were asleep. Gabriel had found that he didn’t need to sleep much anymore. Instead he busied himself into the wee hours. Tonight he was waiting for Hiro and the others to return.

 

A little after one o’clock his ultra-sensitive hearing caught the sound of a Nisan Versa approaching through the neighborhood’s sparse traffic, and he paused in his work. That meant D.L. had stayed behind at the safe house and Ando was returning with Hiro and Mohinder. He began to put away the clock parts. Hiro and Ando would be tired; they had been up almost twenty-four hours by now. Gabriel went to the kitchen to make some tea and set out a dose of Cure. Ando would remember to make sure Hiro took it before he went to bed. He ran some water into the tea kettle, and as he heated it between his hands (“safe as a microwave,” he’d assured his friends) Gabriel let scenarios for their return assemble themselves in his mind. He re-arranged the pieces of the sequence, working out how to get a moment alone with Mohinder. He was in no particular hurry: a solution would come to him, he was sure.

 

The tea was brewing when Ando, Hiro, and Mohinder trooped in four minutes later.

 

“Gabriel,” Hiro greeted him. “Is everything all right?”

 

“Everything’s been quiet,” Gabriel said, leaning against the wall in a stance that was deliberately casual, non-threatening. “The others are asleep. How was your meeting?”

 

“It went very well,” said Hiro, with a sideways glance at Ando. “I think Mohinder’s breakthrough will be very important. We can talk about it in the morning. I want to tell everyone together. And I have something to give them.” He smiled fondly at a small bag he was carrying; Gabriel heard something inside it clink, like glass, perhaps.

 

“Of course.” Gabriel gestured to the kitchen. “I made you some tea.”

 

Mohinder quickly narrowed his eyes at Gabriel, and Gabriel tensed as he recalled the time Mohinder had made Sylar tea, had drugged it to knock him out. Wouldn’t it be poetic, then, if this tea was drugged? No, Gabriel reflected. Not for Hiro and Ando. If he wanted to kill Mohinder, he might do it that way, but he wouldn’t use a method significant only to Mohinder to kill Hiro and Ando. He had such thoughts from time to time, thoughts of killing that had become natural to him when he’d been Sylar. Now, even if he couldn’t prevent them, he could at least ignore them. The Sylar-thoughts could have their say, could even have their way once in a while when it benefited the team, but Gabriel was strong enough now to ignore them when he didn’t want them. And he didn’t want them now. _He_ knew he would never hurt Mohinder. Never. But that didn’t stop Mohinder from glaring long after the moment had passed.

 

“Thank you,” Hiro was saying as he headed for the kitchen.

 

“Thank you,” Ando echoed his friend’s sentiment when he noticed the pill laid out next to the second teacup. It was sometimes a tough job to make sure Hiro slept, ate and took his pills, and Ando always appreciated any help in that area. Gabriel accepted his thanks with a small swell of pleasure. It had been Ando’s acceptance of Gabriel that had won over many others in the group. Even though Hiro had made it his mission to kill Sylar years ago, Hiro had a trusting nature, and found it easy to forgive. Ando was more cynical, so after his history of campaigning for Sylar’s death, his acceptance of Gabriel went a long way towards convincing the others in the group that he was worth trusting.

 

“You will come back next week?” Hiro was saying to Mohinder, who remained standing awkwardly in the hallway.

 

“Yes,” Mohinder said. “I left you enough of the new drug to keep everyone supplied until then.” He hesitated, almost imperceptibly, before continuing. “You must contact me immediately if anything unexpected happens.”

 

New drug? Gabriel’s eyes darted to the countertop: sure enough, Hiro hadn’t taken the pill that had been laid out, and Ando hadn’t reminded him after all. Strange.

 

“We will. Mohinder, thank you,” Hiro was saying earnestly.

 

“I’ve got to get back,” Mohinder said with a quick look at his watch. “Nathan will be returning in the morning, and I should be there.”

 

“Of course,” Hiro said. Mohinder hesitated. “Oh. You need someone to take you back to the train station.”

 

“I can go by myself,” Mohinder said quickly.

 

“It’s not safe,” Ando said. “We don’t want anything to happen to you.”

 

“We need you,” Hiro added.

 

“I can take him,” Gabriel said.

 

Mohinder shot him a horrified look that Hiro couldn’t help but notice. “I will go,” Hiro said resignedly.

 

But Ando looked distressed at that, and Mohinder finally seemed to notice that Hiro was exhausted. He relented. “No, Hiro. You stay here. Sy-… Gabriel can walk with me.”

 

Both Hiro and Ando breathed a sigh of relief. Hiro came forward and threw his arms around Mohinder. Gabriel suppressed a grin as he watched the professor awkwardly return the hug.

 

“Good night, Mohinder,” Ando said from the kitchen. “Thank you.”

 

Gabriel led the way out of the apartment building, with Mohinder’s hateful glare burning holes in his back the whole way. When they reached the street, Gabriel turned to him, but Mohinder held up a hand. “I have nothing to say to you,” he said coldly.

 

“All right,” Gabriel shrugged, and led the way down the alley. He could wait. Mohinder couldn’t resist talking to him forever. They walked in silence for two blocks, and were halfway down another alley when Gabriel grabbed Mohinder’s arm to stop him. Mohinder shook him off angrily, and was about to vent his irritation when Gabriel turned to him with his finger pressed urgently to his lips. He pointed down the alley, where the sounds of an approaching group were clearly audible, and quite loud indeed to Gabriel. “DHS Patrol,” Gabriel whispered.

 

Gabriel saw Mohinder’s eyes dart to him, could practically hear the wheels turning. Homeland Security patrols roamed the streets of every major city in America. Ostensibly, their role was to protect the public from “terrorists” like those in Hiro’s group, but in reality they were instrumental in capturing and detaining evolved humans, dangerous or otherwise. How could it not cross Mohinder’s mind to turn Gabriel in after all he’d suffered at Sylar’s hands? But Mohinder couldn’t turn him in, not right now, anyway, because it might endanger Hiro and his friends, endanger Mohinder himself for aiding them. He wasn’t willing to take that risk. But Gabriel knew Mohinder wished he could shout and bring the troopers down on them. They both held very still as the patrol came nearer.

 

Then, abruptly, the voices got louder: they had turned and were coming down the alley. Gabriel hastily pressed a hand over Mohinder’s mouth, grabbed him around the waist, and pulled him back against the wall of the nearest building as the troop came into sight no more than fifteen feet away. Mohinder fought against him, trying to pull free. A hurried “shhh” had no result, so Gabriel leaned closer and said softly, “Mohinder, please.” And that stopped Mohinder’s struggle, because Sylar had threatened and preached and “Zane” had blathered, but Gabriel was sure that Mohinder had never heard that particular note of pleading in his voice, ever.

 

Mohinder stilled, and the patrol, six men carrying tazers and automatic weapons, walked right by them. Gabriel waited until they turned the corner at the end of the alley to release Mohinder, who spun away from him angrily.

 

“Did you have to grab me like that?” he asked sharply.

 

“I’m sorry,” Gabriel said, unapologetic. “I didn’t want them to see us.”

 

“See us?” Mohinder thought about it for a moment. “It’s not that dark here…Why didn’t they see us?”

 

“We were invisible,” Gabriel said evenly.

 

“Invisible. I don’t remember you being able to do that. Stolen from another one of you victims?” Mohinder suddenly looked horrified. “Peter Petrelli,” he whispered.

 

“No, not Peter Petrelli,” Gabriel said quickly. “Someone else. Years ago. It’s been a long time since I…” Gabriel could find no good way to end that sentence.

 

“Since you murdered anyone?” Mohinder offered bitterly.

 

Gabriel frowned, but controlled his impulse to lash out. Instead, he spoke evenly, rationally. “Mohinder, I’ve done terrible things. I understand that. I know I can’t undo the damage I’ve done. But I am trying to atone for my sins. I am trying to do what I can to change things for the better. I can do that, but what I can’t do is change the past. I thought you, of all people, would understand that.”

 

Mohinder flinched as if he’d been slapped. He didn’t say anything, but Gabriel heard his heart rate slow as he came down from the peak of his anger.

 

“It’s not much further,” Gabriel said wearily. “Let’s get you to the station.”  


* * *

 

Peter was dreaming. He knew he was dreaming because he could fly. God, he missed flying. More than hearing thoughts, more than being invisible, maybe even more than fast healing. But here, in his dream, he could speed past clouds, feeling wind and moisture on his face.

 

He was pretty sure his dreams weren’t prophetic anymore, if they ever really had been. If that was part of any power he possessed or mimicked, it was gone along with all his other abilities, with everything that made him special. His dreams were the normal kind these days, filled with the normal jumble of joys and terrors. Mostly terrors.

 

Through the clouds in front of him, Peter saw a dark shape approaching. It was small, at first, so he thought it might be a bird, but it was moving much too fast for that. He slowed down as he watched whatever it was hurdle toward him, closing in with alarming speed, getting bigger.

 

Peter gathered himself to dodge out of the way, but as the shape got closer, he realized that he recognized it: Nathan. Peter hovered, waiting for his brother to slow down and talk to him, but Nathan didn’t slow down. He slammed into Peter, wrapping his arms around Peter’s waist and taking them down fast, towards the ground.

 

At first, Peter let Nathan guide their movement, content to be held by him as they plummeted, trusting that Nathan had some sort of plan Peter didn’t know about. When his ears popped from the quick descent, he tried to pull away and found that he couldn’t; Nathan was holding on too tight. “Nathan, don’t,” he shouted in his brother’s ear, striving to be heard above the whistling wind. Nathan drew back to meet Peter’s eyes, gave him a questioning look, and then let go, peeling away as Peter continued to fall.

 

Peter tried to fly: couldn’t. He felt cold, and not just from the wind. Peter tried to slow his fall with telekinesis: couldn’t. He tried to go invisible, to picture Claude in his mind: nothing happened. His powers were gone. “Nathan!” he screamed.

 

Nathan returned, keeping pace by flying down as Peter fell. The ground—there was a city down there—was coming up faster and faster. “What’s the problem, Peter?” Nathan asked calmly.

 

“Help me,” Peter screamed.

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Nathan, please,” Peter shouted, and with a condescending smile, Nathan reached out to grab Peter again. Nathan slowed their fall, controlling the decent until they were only a few feet above the ground, over some sort of fenced-in lot where scrubby weeds pushed up through cracks in the concrete. Nathan set them both down gracefully, standing face to face. Nathan pushed Peter’s hair—in Peter’s dream, he had hair—out of his eyes affectionately.

 

“I brought you something,” Nathan said.

 

Peter furrowed his brow in confusion, then realized that Nathan was looking past Peter, addressing someone else. Peter turned and felt a lump form in his throat.

 

Standing against the fence was Gillette, one of Peter’s former owners, the brothel proprietor in whose company Peter had spent so many unpleasant nights. A tall, skinny man with a perpetual five o’clock shadow and a slight smell of whiskey covered by cheap cologne, Gillette flashed the cocky smile Peter had seen many times. When Peter looked around, he realized he knew this place as well: it was the yard outside Gillette’s old house, the first brothel where Peter had worked. There was the wooden pole at the far end of the yard where Gillette had tied up the slaves who defied him. Peter had spent two miserable days tied to that pole once. In the end, he’d begged Gillette to let him down. That seemed like another lifetime, though it couldn’t have been more than two years ago. Had it been as easy as that to break him? Gillette’s smile grew wider, as if following Peter’s train of thought.

 

“I thought I’d return this,” Nathan said, motioning at Peter. “I don’t have any use for it.”

 

Gillette said something in reply, but Peter realized that he didn’t understand the words. It wasn’t any language Peter had heard before and, to Peter’s irritation, Nathan’s reply to Gillette was likewise incomprehensible. They continued to converse in the unintelligible non-language, typical of the perverseness that pervaded Peter’s dreams, while they headed together toward the door at the back of the house. Nathan turned and snapped his fingers, and Peter was surprised to find himself responding to the derogatory summons, following Nathan like a dog.

 

The house was dim after the afternoon sunshine. Peter bumped into a chair as he followed Gillette and Nathan down the hall, and paused to rub his knee. They ignored him, but Peter knew where they were headed and followed them: Gillette’s “office.” It was a mostly bare room with a beat-up desk, a locked safe and a grimy couch, a room actually more run-down than the bedrooms where Gillette’s slaves entertained their clients. It was oddly quiet. Peter knew that from here the sounds of “business” in the other rooms could be heard at any time of day. Gillette had always said it made him feel good to hear that there was money coming in.

 

Gillette laughed at something Nathan said, the harsh, barking sound ringing suddenly into the silence, and they both turned to look at Peter.

 

Standing in the doorway, Peter met Nathan’s eyes, resisting the urge to look at Gillette. Nathan motioned him over, and he came closer, stopping when Nathan held up a hand. Nathan reached out and brushed the back of his hand against Peter’s cheek, lovingly. Then Nathan nodded to Gillette.

 

Gillette grabbed Peter by the shoulder, steering him to the couch, and gave him a sharp command. Peter wondered wildly if this was what dogs experienced when their owners yelled at them. He still couldn’t understand the words, and his fear must have shown in his face, because Gillette gave Peter that familiar cocky smile, patted Peter on the cheek affectionately and held up one finger, commanding Peter to stay.

 

Peter stood still while Gillette pushed Peter’s jacket off his shoulders and stripped the collared shirt off over his head. Peter was surprised that he was wearing these clothes: comfortably worn-in but bohemian fashionable, this was an outfit that belonged to Peter Petrelli. These things didn’t belong to _this_ Peter, and they certainly didn’t belong here, but they seemed familiar somehow, as if he’d seen them recently. Peter was almost glad Gillette was removing them. Almost. Gillette kept his eyes locked with Peter’s as he unbuttoned the corduroy pants and let them fall around Peter’s ankles. He spoke: Peter didn’t understand the words, but he knew what was required.

 

Peter turned away from Gillette and sank to the floor. The action was smooth, automatic. He leaned forward and braced his elbows against the dirty green carpet in front of him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Nathan sitting at the desk. He had his Blackberry out and was typing with his thumbs, ignoring the scene unfolding in front of him. Peter took a moment to despise Nathan for his indifference before his attention was brought back to the physical.

 

Gillette grabbed a handful of Peter’s hair, pulling his head back as he worked his fingers inside him. Peter knew better than to squirm, so he held still and concentrated on his breathing. He kept his gaze fixed on a large brown stain on the carpet, not daring to look at his brother. He wasn’t sure if it hurt more to imagine that Nathan was watching or to imagine that Nathan was still ignoring all this. Either way, Peter refused to be weak. Even when Gillette penetrated him, he refused to give any sign of his pain. But it did hurt, even this familiar discomfort. Peter hated the slow drag and burn of it, hated Gillette’s fist in his hair, hated the stale smell of sweat, the jarring rhythm.

 

Gillette didn’t require his participation, for which Peter was distantly thankful. Still, surviving Gillette meant having patience, and Peter had never had an abundance of that. It took too long: each sharp thrust urging Peter to lash out, to fight. He ignored both the pain and the outrage and simply let them collect like a puddle, their weight palpable in his chest.

 

When Gillette finally finished, pulling out with a wet sound and stepping away, Peter allowed himself to glance again at Nathan. Nathan seemed not to notice that they had finished, or that anything unusual had happened at all. When he finally looked up from his Blackberry, it was only to raise an eyebrow at Gillette.

 

When Gillette spoke this time, Peter understood the words, even though they weren’t meant for him. “You want a go?” Gillette asked.

 

Nathan eyed Peter up and down, disgust evident on his face. “No. Not after all that.”

 

Peter swallowed hard. Of course. Of course Nathan wouldn’t want him.

 

Gillette just shrugged good-naturedly and patted Peter on the ass. Nathan stood and straightened his suit as he walked to the door. He shook hands with Gillette somewhat gingerly, and then spared a glance for his brother. “I love you, Pete,” he said, and walked out the door, leaving Peter behind.  


* * *

 

D.L. was tired. Deep down, bone tired. That happened, sometimes, when he’d used his powers more than he should. He knew it had been right for him to let Ando go back with Hiro and rest, but it would have been nice to have someone else take a turn watching the newly rescued people. Unfortunately, people with special powers were in short supply, and it was probably good that Gabriel was back at the apartment in case anything happened there.

 

At least there was cable here, so D.L. was able to pass the time flipping through infomercials and Star Trek reruns until the cartoons came on around six AM. Cartoons always made him think of Micah. It hurt to think of Micah, so he dragged himself into the kitchen, which was stocked with hideous floral-patterned china, to make some coffee while he waited for the others to wake up.

 

Once the coffee was brewing, D.L. stared out the small, lace-curtained window and began to feel uneasy. He’d been raised in the city: not New York, but Las Vegas, which had the same urban life cycle. He should be able to hear the traffic. In the woods, you could tell if something was wrong if the birds stopped singing. In the city, it was the same with traffic. There was no traffic at all on the street outside, and even at six on a Sunday morning, this part of Queens should have some traffic. Something was wrong.

 

There was a van parked across the street, and D.L. realized with a sinking feeling that he could see the shadows of a group of people clustered behind the van. They were about to get raided. Dropping his coffee mug, he raced for the back of the house where the others were sleeping, whipping out his cell phone as he went and texting an emergency message to the first person on his contact list: Ando.

 

He burst into the bedroom and called out, “It’s Homeland Security. Basement, now.” The former slaves got up instantly and followed him, trusting and alert. After what they’d seen him do to free them yesterday—or was it two days ago?—they had full faith that he could keep them safe. He grabbed Mohinder’s briefcase from the kitchen on his way to the basement. He hoped their faith wasn’t misplaced.

 

D.L. locked the basement door behind him and pounded down the stairs, pushing through the others until he got to a flimsy metal cabinet against the back wall of the room. He pushed it aside, spilling empty paint cans and tools onto the floor. From upstairs came shouting and heavy footfalls.

 

The former slaves looked frightened, but they all turned to D.L. when he spoke. “We have to get you all out. If they catch any of you, they’ll find out about the drug. They can’t find out. Take this.” D.L. handed the briefcase to a balding middle-aged man. “It’s the rest of our supply.”

 

The noises from upstairs were louder. There wasn’t much time left. “Go to Kirby Plaza tomorrow morning,” he said quickly. “Hiro will find you. I’ll hold them off for a bit, then I’ll be right behind you. Go on.” D.L. put his arm through the wall, and it seemed to ripple. “There’s a tunnel behind here that’ll bring you out in the Woodside subway station. Go on, all of you. I can only phase the wall for so long.” They’d seen D.L. pull this very trick in springing them from their detention facility, so all seven went for the wall, trusting unwaveringly in D.L.’s ability.

No sooner had the last of them disappeared through the wall than D.L. felt a sudden agonizing pain. He tried to pull his arm back, to see what was wrong, and found he could not move it. D.L. felt a ripple of fear. His powers…

 

“Stop right there,” someone shouted. As if he could go anywhere with his arm stuck halfway through a wall. D.L. was able to turn enough to see a group of armed DHS agents spill down the stairs. He couldn’t have moved far, even if he wanted to, and without the ability to phase, he had to worry about bullets. He held still. Apparently Homeland Security didn’t have shoot to kill orders, because they simply took up positions around the basement, pointing their weapons at him.

 

D.L. wondered if they were waiting for him to make a move, but then the soldiers on the stairs stood aside and two men descended: they weren’t in body armor like the Homeland Security agents, and neither carried a weapon that D.L. could see. They came into the light: a middle-aged man in horn-rimmed glasses, and a younger man with dark skin, but it took D.L. a moment to realize who they were.

 

Bennett. D.L. knew his name because every evolved human knew it, but D.L. had actually met him once, before Bennett became the spearhead of Homeland Security’s Evolved Human Taskforce. The other man… D.L.’s blood ran cold, because he knew who the other man must be: the Haitian. D.L. had joked with Micah and Molly about him: “Use your powers for good, or the Haitian will get you.” He wasn’t laughing now.

 

The Haitian stayed by the doorway, watching over the scene impassively, oblivious to D.L.’s pain. Bennett, however, approached him, standing just out of reach. “Mister Hawkins,” he said pleasantly. “It’s nice to see you. Let’s talk about Niki Sanders, shall we?”  


* * *


	5. Chapter 5

Nathan rubbed at his temples, trying to ease the headache that was already building. His desk had been buried in paper during his absence, and as tired as he was after a day of driving, he had to deal with this. He really should have been home this weekend going over next session’s budget proposals like Mandy had told everyone he was. But, as always, if Peter got in trouble, Nathan dropped everything and came running. That’s why he hadn’t minded three years of following anonymous tips around the country: any number of wild goose chases was acceptable if one of them ended with finding Peter. But now, Nathan wondered if going after Peter had been a wise plan after all.

 

Not for the first time, Nathan was glad that Angela Petrelli hadn’t lived to see what her sons had come to. Nathan wasn’t sure if she’d ever forgiven him for, as she put it, “allowing your brother to throw his life away.” Of course, she wouldn’t forgive him for endangering his political career now, even if it meant helping Peter. She would have had some plan in place to keep Nathan out of political danger while she took care of The Peter Problem.

 

Ma had always known how to talk to Peter, but Nathan… He had always been a little rough in relating to his brother, but it had been enough because Peter would meet him halfway. More than halfway. In fact, Peter had always met Nathan wherever he was, had always been the one to give. But this Peter… Nathan hardly recognized him. There was only one explanation for this. Peter was insane. Nathan had gotten to him too late, and now there was nothing of Peter left to save.

 

There was a soft knock at the door, and Nathan frowned. Few people ever came to his private study, and only one of them would stop by at this time of night. “Come in,” he called without looking up from his paperwork.

 

Mohinder Suresh wandered in, bleary-eyed, and shut the door gently behind him.

 

“Another late night in the lab, Doctor Suresh?” Nathan asked.

 

“Yes,” answered Mohinder slowly. “A promising new experiment.”

 

That was vague. Nathan would have to ask around later, talk to the staff and find out what was really going on with Mohinder. Nathan signed another document absently. He was sure Mohinder would confide in him eventually, but in the meantime, it never hurt to know what was going on in his own home.

 

“How was your trip?” Mohinder asked.

 

Nathan set the already-signed document aside and took another from a tall stack before answering. As much as Nathan was reluctant to trust anyone else with his secret, there was no point in keeping this from Mohinder. “I found him,” Nathan said simply.

 

“Found—Peter?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Mohinder rushed to the desk, full of nervous excitement. “Nathan, that’s wonderful. I never thought—Where? In Chicago? Where is he? Is he all right?”

 

“He’s locked in his room. Mohinder…” Nathan braced himself. He had to tell someone; it was better to tell Mohinder, who had some chance of helping. “I think… I think he’s crazy.”

 

Mohinder looked searchingly at Nathan. “What do you mean?”

 

“I mean, I’m not sure it’s really _him_. That he’s really in there.”

 

“What makes you say that?”

 

“I’m not sure he knows who I am.” Nathan wasn’t about to explain the scene at the hotel in Ohio. “I mean, he knows my name, but--.” The phone on the desk rang, and Nathan picked it up at once. “What?”

 

Mandy’s voice came through the phone. “He’s awake, sir.”

 

“I’ll be right there.” Nathan hung up and turned back to Mohinder. “I have to go talk to my brother.”

 

“Can I see him?” Mohinder asked eagerly.

 

“No.” No, that would definitely not be a good idea. But seeing how Mohinder’s face fell, Nathan added, “Not right now.” Nathan started to the door and turned back with his hand on the doorknob. “And Mohinder?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“I think you understand how important it is that no one knows Peter is here.” Nathan turned the full force of his serious glare on Mohinder. “You do understand that, don’t you?”

 

“I won’t tell a soul,” Mohinder said earnestly.

 

“Good.”  


* * *

 

Hiro must have chosen that text message signal: the Star Trek transporter sound effect. Cute, but at this time of morning, Ando didn’t think it was funny at all. He grabbed for the phone, finding it on the bedside table where he’d thrown it when he’d finally tumbled into bed. He flipped the phone open to read the text, and swallowed hard. Ando had hoped he’d never get this particular message, but there was the text on his phone from D.L., big as life: “DHS. Run.”

 

Ando pulled on a pair of jeans, calling out Hiro’s name as he went into the other room. Hiro looked up from where he was going over a building blueprint with half a dozen members of the team. “D.L. sent a message,” Ando told them. “We have to go.”

 

Everyone began talking at once.

 

“Is he okay?”

 

“What happened?”

 

“Was it Homeland Security?”

 

“Are they coming here?”

 

“What about the people we rescued?”

 

Hiro broke through the questions with a voice of authority. “Take only what’s important. We leave here in three minutes.” Only after the others had gone to pack their things did Hiro turn to Ando.

 

“It was Homeland Security,” said Ando. “That’s all I know.”

 

Hiro nodded, but his face crumpled with disappointment. “Okay. We’ll assume they got out. I’ll have Gabriel take the team to our new place, and you and I will go to the rendezvous.”

 

“Hiro, what if it’s a trap?” Ando asked. “What if they caught someone, and made them say where we were meeting?”

 

Hiro’s face crumpled even more. “We have to try. We can’t just leave them on their own. We are responsible for their safety.”

 

“Okay. I’ll take the team, and you take Gabriel,” said Ando. “He can protect you.”

 

“I can take care of myself,” Hiro said, sounding almost amused.

 

“I know. But Gabriel can make sure,” Ando said. After a moment’s consideration, Hiro nodded. Ando turned to go, but, feeling a sudden urgent misgiving, he turned back and grabbed Hiro’s arm before he could walk away. “Hiro, tell me something. Issac’s painting. You are in it, aren’t you?” he whispered.

 

Hiro hesitated, but at least he didn’t pretend not to know which painting Ando meant. “What would you say if I told you I wasn’t?”

 

“I’d worry,” said Ando. He watched Hiro struggle with himself, probably trying to find something to say that _wouldn’t_ worry his friend.

 

“I don’t know if I’m in the painting,” Hiro said finally.

 

“You don’t know?” Ando asked, skeptical.

 

“We can talk about this later, Ando,” Hiro said. “Right now, we have to run.”

 

Ando didn’t let go of his arm. “Hiro, even if you are not in the painting, it doesn’t mean your life isn’t valuable.” Did Hiro look guilty? “Be careful.”

 

“I’ll see you soon, Ando.”  


* * *

 

For a moment, Peter felt kind of bad for this girl, whoever she was. Some lackey of his brother’s, obviously, but he didn’t recognize her. She was shortish, blonde, and with the harried look of someone with a schedule to keep.

 

“Please stop. You’ll hurt yourself,” she pleaded, then ducked as Peter threw another vase against the wall. It shattered, a thousand tiny shards of porcelain burying themselves in the plush carpet. Peter grabbed the next vase off the shelf and repeated the process.

 

As he turned to find something else to throw, the woman moved toward him slowly, hands held out in front of her, as if approaching a wild animal. “Please calm down,” she said soothingly.

 

“Get away from me,” Peter growled, his voice sounding harsh and menacing, even to him. He grabbed a delicately carved wooden chair from its place against the wall and flung it across the room. The woman squeaked in surprise and jumped out of the way as the chair impacted against the wall with a sickening crunch.

 

That could have hurt her, Peter realized. He should feel bad about that. He should stop this little tantrum, but he wasn’t going to. He wasn’t sure if it was the dream—the nightmare—that had upset him, or if he simply felt the need to make his surroundings as messed-up as he felt. This neat little room in an out-of-the-way wing of the Petrelli Estate seemed like a cruel joke right now. What had Nathan been thinking to bring him here?

 

Peter went after the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf next, grabbing handfuls of books and flinging them over his shoulder, stopping to tear some apart before tossing them away. That helped, the solid sound of ripping paper, but it wasn’t enough. He whirled around to find his next target.

There—he stormed across the room, the girl stepping aside for him without a word, and wrenched open the closet door to a neat row of hanging clothes. Nathan had had these things brought here from Peter’s old apartment, obviously. For some reason he couldn’t articulate, that infuriated Peter, and he began to pull things off their hangers, ripping some of the clothing before flinging it behind him onto the floor. He was so absorbed in his task that he didn’t hear the door open.

 

“Peter, what are you doing?”

 

Peter whirled around to see his brother in the doorway, the blonde woman standing warily behind him. There was a potted plant on a stand a few feet away, so Peter grabbed that and hurled it at them. The girl dodged, but Nathan stood his ground, watching impassively as the plant smashed into the doorframe next to him. When Peter moved to pick up the plant stand, Nathan said, “Stop it, Peter.” Nathan’s voice had a sharp edge to it, a demand for obedience, and Peter froze. He set the plant stand back down and stood still, eyes on the floor.

 

“I’ll take it from here, Mandy,” Nathan said. The woman made a quick escape, and Nathan shut the door behind her. Then he watched Peter expectantly, waiting for him to explain himself.

 

Peter slumped against the wall, sliding down to the floor as he took stock of the carnage around him: shattered glass, dirt, ripped pages, and piles of clothing littered the floor. Peter grabbed the nearest article of clothing that he’d thrown from the closet: a green and blue striped tie. He held it up and stared at it, bright against the pale of his skin, the black of his helix tattoo. “None of this is me,” he said weakly.

 

Nathan raised an eyebrow. “I bought you that tie.”

 

“And I didn’t like it then, either.”

 

“Is that supposed to hurt my feelings?” Nathan asked, unmoved. “What’s wrong with you, Peter?”

 

Peter thought about that for a moment and realized that he would very much like to know the answer. “I don’t know. What is wrong with me?” To Peter’s surprise, that tore open some wound inside him, releasing the flood of pain and shame bottled up from his dream. Why was it so important to push Nathan away? It had seemed so essential, once, to refuse the comfort Nathan offered, but now it was all Peter wanted. He needed the assurance that he wouldn’t be discarded again, but he could never ask for it. Peter didn’t have that right anymore. He buried his head in his hands and felt the hot sting of tears.

 

Nathan was beside him immediately. “Hey,” he said softly. “Come here.” Peter clung to his brother, resting his head on Nathan’s shoulder and luxuriating in the comfort of Nathan’s arms around him.

 

“Why did you bring me here?” Peter choked out. “What do you want from me?”

 

“I just want you,” Nathan said. Peter felt Nathan tense as he realized how that sounded. “To be safe,” Nathan amended quickly.

 

“I know what you meant,” Peter said, and was rewarded when Nathan relaxed again.

 

Nathan sat back, releasing Peter, and glanced around at the destruction. “You scared Mandy,” he said mildly.

 

“Sorry,” Peter said. He brushed his hand across his forehead—a holdover from the long habit of keeping hair out of his eyes. His heart fell a little as that small gesture reminded him that he wasn’t, he could never be the Peter that Nathan remembered. He may still have some of the same pieces, but he certainly wasn’t whole.

 

Nathan must have noticed the gesture, because he said, “Your hair will grow back, Peter.”

 

Peter managed a weak smile. “I know.”

 

Nathan rested his hand on Peter’s shoulder and stared at him for so long that Peter began to wonder what he was looking for.

 

“Here’s what I’m going to do,” Nathan said at last. “I’m going to treat you like Peter.” Peter gave him a skeptical look. “I’m going to treat you like Peter,” Nathan repeated. “And you’re going to be Peter.”

 

“Okay,” Peter said, because it sounded so reasonable when Nathan said it, especially with Nathan so close, his clean, familiar smell in Peter’s nose, his brown eyes holding Peter’s, his hand gripping Peter’s shoulder. They were only inches apart, and Peter found himself leaning in even closer. Be Peter Petrelli. He could do that. He’d always known how to do that, in some way.

 

Then in the space of an instant, they were touching, Peter opening his mouth to Nathan and closing his eyes for a deep kiss. This was familiar, even after so long. And maybe, Peter thought as Nathan grabbed his neck to pull him closer, with this for an anchor, maybe he could start to be Peter Petrelli again.  


* * *


	6. Love’s the Burning Boy, Intermission

_**More than three years ago** _

 

Peter contemplated the half-full bottle of wine on the coffee table in front of him. There was a second wine bottle, empty, next to it, and an empty bottle of Jack Daniels from the night before. Making up his mind, he poured himself another glass of wine. It was fairly awful, but substantially less awful now than it had been five glasses ago. As he took the first sickly-sweet sip, he felt a little light headed. What had been euphoria was close to hysteria now that he thought about how this would probably end: badly. Today’s actions might have been a mistake… But a mistake that felt very good.

 

It had been eight months since the bomb, but only twelve days since Nathan had told Peter to get out of New York. It was easy for Peter to be deceived by Nathan, and it had always taken a great effort on Peter’s part to resist anything Nathan wished him to do. So when Nathan had come to his apartment and told him to pack his bags, he’d done it.

 

“I can’t stop what’s coming Peter,” Nathan had said, pressing a stack of bills into Peter’s hand. “Take this and disappear. Don’t tell me where you’re going, don’t tell Ma, don’t tell Hiro. Don’t tell anyone. Just go. When it’s safe, I’ll find you. But you have to disappear now, or I won’t be able to protect you.”

 

Just before the cab arrived to take Peter away to the bus station, no pesky flight manifest to betray his destination, Nathan had pulled him into an embrace, a long kiss, biting Peter’s lip gently as he pulled away. Then he whispered, “Promise me.”

 

“Anything,” Peter had said.

 

“Don’t be a hero. Just wait for me,” Nathan told him. Peter managed to nod. “Good. I’ll find you.” Then Nathan stepped away and left Peter to gather his bags and stumble out of the apartment.

 

Peter had done as Nathan asked and gone: west, to the desert, where he’d planned to hide once before. Las Vegas was as good a city as any to get lost in. He didn’t mind his exile for the first week, knowing it was what Nathan wanted. In retrospect, he should have realized what was coming, considering the news stories. Congressman Petrelli was at the center of some important new legislation, something concerning evolved humans; clips of his press conferences littered the nightly news. Peter had been watching them religiously on the twelve-inch television in his squalid apartment that rented by the week. He wasn’t watching them now.

 

Setting the plastic cup of wine back on the coffee table, Peter caught sight of a book lying discarded on the armchair across the room; he reached for it with his mind. When the book flew to his hand, he opened it to a page whose corner was folded over. Peter hadn’t always liked Shakespeare, but in recent years the epic adventures of his family had seemed… well… Shakespearean. _King Lear_ had been appropriate for his mood since he’d been here in Nevada. On this dog-eared page was a familiar passage he’d marked a few days ago, in which the scheming Edmund first plots to betray his brother Edgar. Peter read.

__  
EDMUND: Pray ye, go; there's my key:  
if you do stir abroad, go armed. 

__

 

_EDGAR: Armed, brother!_

__

 

_EDMUND: Brother, I advise you to the best; go armed: I_  
am no honest man if there be any good meaning  
towards you: I have told you what I have seen  
and heard; but faintly, nothing like the image  
and horror of it: pray you, away. 

__

 

_EDGAR: Shall I hear from you anon?_

__

 

_EDMUND: I do serve you in this business. (Exit EDGAR)_  
Ah my soul. A brother noble  
Whose nature is so far from doing harms  
That he suspects none: on whose foolish honesty  
My practices ride easy! 

 

Foolish honesty… Peter had believed in Nathan absolutely, had run and hidden, had watched the news curiously but not distrustfully. It wasn’t long before the news was no longer a comfort, and it became painfully clear to Peter why Nathan had sent him away.

 

On Monday afternoon, Congress had finally passed the series of bills that collectively had been dubbed The Linderman Solution: registration, observation, detention, and some sort of “Cure” for special abilities. This was the big fix legislators had been hinting about since… Well, since The Bomb, really. Even though he was only a freshman congressman, Nathan had somehow, thanks to Ma’s machinations no doubt, been one of the sponsors of the bill, and so Congressman Petrelli, good-looking, articulate, wholesome, had become the public face and spokesman for The Linderman Solution.

 

Last night Peter had watched him on the CBS evening news. He looked, as Ma would say, presidential in his dark suit and red tie, chatting easily with Katie Couric.

 

Katie smiled her plastic smile and spent about three seconds introducing Nathan (“the John F. Kennedy of our generation”) before launching into her questions about the new laws. “You’ve said over and over again how important this legislation is for national security,” she said, eyebrows knit in feigned earnestness. “How will The Linderman Solution protect America from the menace of so-called ‘special’ humans?”

 

“In writing this bill, my fellow Congressmen and I wanted, above all, to ensure the safety of the American way of life. All those who are a danger to the safety and security of the American people need to be registered and, if necessary, detained,” Nathan began. He was calm, reasonable but firm, without a hint of fanaticism that might bring his motives into question. Peter had to hand it to him: the man could spin. “A brilliant geneticist by the name of Mohinder Suresh has developed a way to predict where these evolutionary abnormalities will occur. He has provided us with a list of all altered humans. That’s how the Department of Homeland Security will locate those who may be a danger to America.”

 

“What will happen to the people on this list?” Katie asked.

 

“It’s imperative that every last person on that list be located and evaluated as a potential threat. This is a duty that every patriotic American must take seriously,” Nathan said. Peter wondered if he should start counting the times Nathan said “American.”

 

Katie leaned forward in her chair, frowning seriously, but in a friendly way. “Congressman Petrelli, what do you say to those Americans whose spouses or children might be ‘special’? Should they be expected to give up members of their family?”

 

“I’m glad you brought that up, Katie,” Nathan said. He took a moment to collect himself although, Peter knew, it was more for dramatic effect than out of necessity. Whatever he was about to say was carefully prepared: it was the thing he’d come here to say. “This is the first time I’ve told anyone this, but I have a personal connection to this question. I recently learned,” he paused again for effect, “that my younger brother Peter is on Doctor Suresh’s list.”

 

“Your brother?” Katie asked. “Congressman, isn’t it true that this genetic abnormality runs in families?”

 

“That’s true in some cases, Katie, but my name is not on Doctor Suresh’s list. Just to make sure, I had Doctor Suresh himself test my DNA. No, it might be nice to have superpowers in my line of work, but I’m just an ordinary man.” He smiled his best shark-toothed smile, and Katie laughed politely before returning to her line of questioning.

 

“So now what will happen to your brother?”

 

“Normally, someone who’s on the list will only be asked to present themselves for some simple tests. If they’re determined not to be a threat to national security, they’ll be released,” he said easily, making it sound like the most normal and innocuous policy possible. “I’m sorry to say that my brother, who has always been a troubled young man, refused to cooperate with the authorities. He broke out of an observation facility in New York and is now a fugitive from the law. I know what that means, but I don’t shrink from what must be done. In the interest of keeping America safe, Peter and everyone else like him must be brought to justice. ”

 

Peter stared at the television. It was brilliant, really. Reassure the public, deliver the message about the Department of Homeland Security’s new powers, spell out the consequences for those who resisted, and hamstring all accusation of unfairness with the simple fact that Congressman Petrelli has already exposed his own brother. Brilliant.

 

Peter had gone right to the Kwik Stop on the corner and bought a fifth of Jack Daniels, swigging out of the bottle on his way back to his apartment. He drank the entire bottle, slopping it into a plastic cup as he watched the rest of the news. When he woke up later, much later, he was surprised to find that he’d punched out the TV screen sometime the previous evening. His hand was healed, of course, but there was blood on the jagged edges of the broken screen.

 

It was then, staring at his dried blood on the wrecked television, that Peter had decided he wasn’t going to make this easy for his brother. It’s possible there was still some whiskey in his system when he made the decision, but that hardly mattered. He lurched outside into the dirty-pale late morning light and launched himself into the sky.

 

It was right, fitting, that Peter use this power, this one out of all the ones he could call up, to defy his brother. He flew to the Strip, flew over the buildings until he saw what looked like a good spot. He landed on the head of the Statue of Liberty in front of New York New York, holding on to one of the points of her crown. Most pedestrians hurried by, intent on their destinations but, after all, people came to Vegas to gawk, and it wasn’t long before someone caught sight of him.

 

“Oh my God! There’s someone up there!” a man yelled, although it sounded very faint to Peter from so far up. That cry caught the attention of others, and soon a small crowd was forming below Peter.

 

“Hey, don’t jump, mister.”

 

“Just hold on! We’ll get you some help!”

 

People were beginning to point, pulling out their cell phones to call 911 or take pictures.

 

Once there was a respectable crowd gathered, Peter made his move. He stepped forward over the edge of the statue, his arms stretched out to the sides as he began to pitch forward, and in a rush came that sickening sensation of falling. He let himself fall several stories while the ground approached with dizzying rapidity. The onlookers screamed. Peter checked his fall, gracefully maneuvering himself to fly over the upturned heads of the crowd, slow enough that everyone could get a good look. Then he flew down Las Vegas Boulevard, out into the seedier neighborhood where his building crouched between a third-rate casino and a wedding chapel. He touched down outside the Kwik Stop on the corner.

 

Rocky, the owner, stared at him as he came in. Peter smiled. “Hey.” He took a minute to peruse the shelves of wine while Rocky continued to stare. Merlot was on sale two for five. He grabbed a couple bottles and brought them to the counter, where Rocky was still gaping at him.

 

“Nice day, isn’t it?” Peter asked, still smiling.

 

Rocky slid each bottle into a brown paper sack before handing them back to Peter, never once taking his eyes off him.

 

Peter fished a ten dollar bill out of his pocket and put it on the counter, but Rocky made no move to take it. He just kept looking at Peter as though he expected him to burst into flame or disappear or something. Peter considered it, but decided he’d better stick with one power so Homeland Security would get a clear story. In any case, Rocky was in no condition to make change.

 

“Thanks Rocky,” Peter said on his way out. Back on the street, people who had seen him land were still staring. Peter checked back inside to make sure that Rocky was also watching through the store’s large front windows, then he took off again, clutching a brown-bagged bottle in each hand, flying down the block to his apartment building.

 

Now Peter sat contemplating the broken television screen morosely. That had been hours ago. His plan had to have worked: no way could those antics be ignored. Peter had spoken with Rocky often enough that he was sure Rocky would be able to tell the authorities where to find him. Now it was a toss-up to see who would find him first: the DHS or Nathan. Peter wasn’t sure which prospect was worse. He poured the last of the wine into the plastic cup, which still had the bitter taste of whisky clinging to it. At least if the DHS took him, Nathan wouldn’t be able to find him. He just had to be patient, that was all.

 

Peter sipped the wine and turned his attention back to _King Lear,_ flipping to the next turned-down page. He didn’t remember marking this passage: perhaps he’d done it last night after punching out the television. It was another scene of Edward’s scheming:  
 __

_EDMUND: Brother, a word: O sir, fly this place;_  
Intelligence is given where you are hid;  
You have now the good advantage of the night: 

__

 

_I hear my father coming: pardon me:_  
In cunning I must draw my sword upon you  
Draw; seem to defend yourself; now quit you well.  
Yield: come before my father. Light, ho, here!  
Fly, brother. Torches, torches! So, farewell. (Exit EDGAR)  
Father, father! Stop, stop! No help? (Enter GLOUCESTER) 

__

 

_GLOUCESTER: Now, Edmund, where's the villain?_

__

 

_EDMUND: Here stood he in the dark, his sharp sword out,_  
Mumbling of wicked charms, conjuring the moon  
To stand auspicious mistress,-- 

__

 

_GLOUCESTER: But where is he?_

__

 

_EDMUND: Look, sir, I bleed._

__

 

_GLOUCESTER: Where is the villain, Edmund?_

__

 

_EDMUND: Fled this way, sir.  
_

Peter closed the book in disgust and sent it drifting into the other room to rest on his bedside table next to the framed picture of him and Nathan. If he was still feeling morose in a few more hours and if Homeland Security hadn’t come to arrest him yet, he would read Act Five before bed. At least Edgar got to kill his traitor brother in the end.  


* * *

 

From the darkened roof of the building across the street, Nathan watched the Homeland Security agents haul Peter out of the shitty little tenement building, and clenched his fists in frustration. Stupid. Peter had promised not to be a hero. Nathan should have known better, should have taken charge of his brother’s exile himself instead of trusting Peter to keep himself hidden. There was nothing he could do right now to fix this. He had personally penned the amendment mandating that captured evolved humans be isolated from their families, denied _habeas corpus,_ tracked only by numbers, no names: wouldn’t want familial bonds jeopardizing national security. So Nathan couldn’t do anything outright. He’d have to wait.

 

A part of him whispered that there were benefits, too, to Peter’s arrest. Congressman Petrelli would seem so patriotic, so stalwart, to let his own fugitive brother be taken in for examination and undergo the hell of the Department of Homeland Security’s newly-created Evolved Human Taskforce. Wasn’t that what he wanted? To place his credibility as a supporter of The Linderman Solution above all doubt?

 

Once the Homeland Security goons had Peter in the truck—he hadn’t put up a fight—Nathan took off, going straight up first, above the clouds where there was no chance he’d be spotted from the ground, before flying east. He had to get back to Hyde Park as soon as possible, or Heidi would worry. He’d figure out what to do to get Peter back. He had to, because somehow, as he’d feared, Peter hadn’t quite understood.  


* * *

 

**_One year ago_ **

 

Mohinder felt a little silly in his dark glasses and baseball cap. He had never particularly liked sneaking around, and it didn’t seem like his preparations would be much use, anyway. This Starbucks was far enough away from the NYU campus that the likelihood of any student or faculty member recognizing him was quite slim. And even if someone did recognize him, they would think nothing of seeing him here, unless of course this mysterious informant was some sort of celebrity.

 

The e-mail to his NYU account had come only two hours ago, and had read simply: “Want to be a Hiro? Starbucks on Spring St., 4:00. Be careful.” He wouldn’t have come, except that he had the feeling he was meant to understand more than he had from the message. Was the message from Hiro Nakamura, the infamous “terrorist?” Anything was possible, even some kind of elaborate political trap, but in the crisp afternoon sunshine filtering into the urban-chic yet fashionably run-down Starbucks, such paranoid notions seemed out of place.

 

Mohinder looked around surreptitiously, trying to decide who his informant might be. There were a few possibilities: a blond woman, middle-aged, standing alone by the counter, a thin Japanese man devouring a biscotti, or a long-haired, scruffy-looking man in a dirty trench coat stumbling out of the bathroom past a long line of bystanders. Mohinder hoped it wasn’t that last one.

 

After a moment, the Japanese man looked up and saw him, smiled faintly, and waved. With a last look around, Mohinder approached and took the seat at the table across from the smiling stranger.

 

“I’m Ando Masahashi,” the Japanese man said, brushing crumbs from his hand and extending it for Mohinder to shake. “You have shorter hair than I remember.”

 

“Have we met?” Mohinder asked. He was sure he’d never seen this man before.

 

“We will, in the future,” Ando said, then frowned. “Well, we’re meeting now, which means we already will have met when we meet in the future. If that’s still the future. Never mind. I know who you are.”

 

Mohinder gave up trying to work out that puzzle, and asked, “Did you send me that message?”

 

“Yes,” Ando said. “I’m glad you came. I didn’t know if you would remember Hiro.”

 

“I do remember him,” Mohinder said grimly, flashing back momentarily to the chaos of the night at Kirby Plaza. “But he’s also sort of famous.”

 

“Yes. There’s that,” Ando agreed. “I’m a friend of his. And…” He fished around in his coat pocket and came out with a small envelope. “Another friend sent me this to give to you, so you would know you could trust me,” Ando said. He slid the envelope across the table.

 

Mohinder picked it up warily. It wasn’t sealed, so he took out the little square of paper inside: it was a drawing of a star in yellow crayon. Mohinder couldn’t breathe for a moment. He’d seen a star exactly like this once before: Molly Walker had given it to him, to protect him from the boogeyman, she’d said. He’d never shown it to anyone. “Where did you get this?”

 

“I think you know,” Ando replied. “At least, I hope it means something to you. She knew who I am, where I was, somehow, and sent that to me to give to you.”

 

“How is she? Is she safe?” Mohinder asked. A million questions raced through his mind—he’d thought Molly was lost to him forever.

 

Ando shook his head. “I don’t know. I hope so. She asked us not to look for her.”

 

Mohinder’s heart fell, but his mind kept racing. “Why did she send it to you and not to me?” he asked.

 

Ando shrugged. “Maybe she knew I was looking for you.”

 

So Ando didn’t know anything about Molly after all. But she had been thinking of Mohinder, had sent this for him. It couldn’t be a forgery; he’d never shared Molly’s present with anyone. If Molly meant for him to trust Ando, he would. “What do you want from me?” he asked, turning his attention back to Ando.

 

“You never knew Isaac Mendez, but you saw his work, yes?”

 

“Yes, after the… Peter finally showed me Isaac’s loft,” Mohinder explained. After that, Mohinder had wished he’d given Peter that chance the first time. Isaac had undoubtedly been talented and gifted. His death was another loss for the good guys, another victory for Sylar.

 

“What I’m about to tell you goes no further than this table. If Hiro knew I was telling you, he’d kill me.” Ando waited for Mohinder to nod his agreement. “Hiro has a painting of Isaac’s that shows how we can fix this,” Ando went on.

 

Mohinder blinked. “Fix what?”

 

“This,” Ando waved a hand at the world outside.

 

Fix all of this? Erase all Mohinder’s guilt? Impossible. “How?” Mohinder asked, unable to keep the note of skepticism out of his voice. “What does this painting show?”

 

“I’m not sure,” Ando admitted after a moment.

 

“Well, you’ve seen it, haven’t you?”

 

Ando shook his head reluctantly “Hiro is keeping it safe. And the fewer people who know what it shows, the better.”

 

Mohinder could see the logic in that. “So why do you need me?”

 

Ando leaned in and lowered his voice. “Not long ago, Hiro was taken in one of those new DHS sweeps. We broke him out—he was only in custody for a day—but…” Ando closed his eyes, and Mohinder wondered what could be so painful to tell. “They’d already given him Cure. His powers were gone.”

 

Mohinder’s fault again. It was amazing, really, that this man would come for him to help, since Mohinder was responsible for much of “this” in the first place. “Why are you telling me this?” he asked miserably.

 

“Hiro didn’t send me to talk to you,” Ando said. “I came here on my own, because of what I’ve heard about you.”

 

“And what did you hear about me?” Mohinder snapped, again hearing the scorn and cynicism creep into his voice.

 

“That you’re a hero,” Ando said immediately.

 

Mohinder gave a bitter laugh. “Who said that?”

 

“Molly Walker,” Ando replied. That shut Mohinder up. “If we’re going to win this war, Hiro needs—they all need their abilities back,” Ando continued. “You are the only one with any hope of making that happen.”

 

Mohinder looked down at the star in his hand. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said.  


* * *

 

**_Six Months Ago_ **

 

Hiro shut the door of the Versa quietly. He was glad now that Ando had insisted on coming. Even though it was broad daylight, this place had a somber, decaying feel to it. The Calvary Cemetery didn’t have many visitors today; the blue Versa was the only car in view.

 

Hiro and Ando moved out into rows of gravestones, keeping alert for any sign of danger. Then Ando tapped Hiro on the shoulder and pointed to a figure about twenty feet away, several rows in front of them. Sylar was sitting on the ground, leaning back against a headstone. His head was propped in one hand, pensively, and he was staring off into space. Out of the corner of his eye, Hiro saw Ando reach for his gun. He looked back at his friend and shook his head silently. Ando ignored him.

 

Squinting, Hiro could make out the name on the stone against which Sylar sat: Virginia Gray. Hiro closed his eyes for a moment, and the memory of Virginia Gray’s death replayed in his mind. He remembered the stricken look on Sylar’s face, the sorrow that turned to anger when Hiro came at him with a sword, striking like a coward against an enemy in his moment of weakness. Hiro opened his eyes to banish the unpleasant memories, and caught a sympathetic glance from Ando, who must also have been remembering that night.

 

Sylar turned and seemed to realize they were there for the first time. He lifted one hand and gave a small wave.

 

It was such an innocent, casual gesture. “Put your gun away,” Hiro said.

 

Ando didn’t take his eyes off Sylar. “No.”

 

“If I wanted to hurt you, I would have done it already,” Sylar called from his spot on the ground. It was amazing that he’d heard them.

 

Hiro walked closer so he didn’t have to shout. “You asked to see us, so we came.”

 

Sylar stood up, and Ando raised his gun to point at him. “What do you want?” Ando asked.

 

“I want to talk to Hiro,” Sylar said evenly, apparently untroubled by Ando’s threatening manner.

 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Ando said.

 

“Okay.” Sylar looked at them until Ando lowered his gun. Hiro noticed that he didn’t put the weapon away, but kept it ready in his hand. “I’ve heard that you lead a group of resistance fighters,” Sylar said.

 

Hiro and Ando exchanged an alarmed look. Had someone on their team betrayed them? “Where did you hear that?” Ando demanded.

 

“No one told me,” Sylar said. “I painted your break-in at the DHS Processing Center in Queens. When I heard about it on the news, I knew what I’d painted was the truth.”

 

“Issac’s gift,” Hiro said softly. Sylar nodded.

 

“So you know something. What are you going to do about it?” Ando asked.

 

“I want to help you,” Sylar said simply.

 

Ando laughed, but Hiro said nothing. He was watching Sylar, who seemed almost hurt by Ando’s reaction. “You want to _help_ us?” Ando echoed incredulously once his laughter had subsided. “You expect us to believe that?”

 

“I understand that you don’t trust me right now,” Sylar said evenly. “I deserve that.”

 

Hiro was surprised at how calm Sylar seemed in the face of Ando’s derision. In Hiro’s brief acquaintances with him, Sylar had been passionate, impulsive and, above all, prideful; this almost seemed like a different man. “If you’ve changed, tell us why,” Hiro demanded.

 

“This world…” Sylar began, addressing Hiro. “It’s a dangerous place for people like me, like us. Special people. When this all started, I was glad. Everyone was identified, neutralized. It was like picking fruit. All I had to do was reach out my hand and take, and I could get all the abilities I wanted, every one.”

 

“I thought you’d be glad to have the government doing your work for you,” Ando sneered.

 

“It’s not the same,” Sylar said in growing frustration. “I took abilities because I could make better use of them. Because of the evolutionary imperative. This is just a waste.”

 

“So you’re against slavery because slavers don’t eat people’s brains?” Ando asked, his voice dripping with scorn.

 

“I don’t—. Never mind.” Thwarted by Ando’s relentless hostility and Hiro’s apparent indifference, Sylar turned to go. “This was a mistake. I should never have expected this to work.”

 

“It’s not just that, is it?” Hiro called after him. “There is something else bothering you.”

 

Sylar paused, turned back slowly. “There is something else.” Sylar looked searchingly at Hiro, and then continued. “Do you know which of my abilities is the most terrifying?

 

Hiro and Ando shook their heads in unison.

 

“Isaac Mendez’s ability. Seeing the future can be… upsetting,” Sylar said hesitantly. “And I saw something, a few weeks ago, that made me think.”

 

Hiro looked at Ando. Neither of them wanted to ask the obvious question, but Hiro finally did. “What did you see?”

 

“I saw something I didn’t want to be,” he said. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not talk about it.”

 

“So what do you expect us to do?” Ando asked.

 

Sylar took a deep breath before saying, “I want to help you with what you’re doing.” Seeing Hiro and Ando’s reactions, he continued quickly. “I know you understand all the ways I could be helpful.”

 

“Maybe,” said Hiro. “You have great power. But you are a bad man.”

 

Sylar took a step toward them. Ando raised his gun again as he backed up, but Hiro stood his ground. “I’m trying not to be,” Sylar said.

 

Hiro looked pleadingly at Ando, and Ando lowered his gun once more. “Everyone deserves a second chance,” Hiro told Ando.

 

Ando eyed Sylar suspiciously. “How do we know you won’t kill us?” he asked.

 

Sylar laid a hand on his mother’s gave, but kept his eyes fixed on Hiro and Ando. “I swear,” he said solemnly.  


* * *


	7. Chapter 7

Matt Parkman didn’t have a very good feeling about this rendezvous. Kirby Plaza looked safe enough, but then it was impossible to tell if any of the people milling around or sitting on benches might be Homeland Security agents. He’d left his six companions huddled together nervously around the corner. Matt had been the group’s unanimous choice to brave the rendezvous site, God only knew why. Shelly, the redhead, had gotten out of him that he used to be a cop. “You used to risk your life for other people for a living,” she’d said acidly. “So you go be a hero. We’ll wait here.” Actually, they were probably in more danger standing, as they were, rather conspicuously on a street corner together. For all Matt knew, Homeland Security could be arresting them right now.

 

Matt tried not to consider that possibility though, and concentrated instead on scanning the crowd for familiar faces. He was a little surprised when Hiro himself appeared at the far end of the Plaza, strolling purposefully through the crowd and holding a briefcase as if he were on his way to work. Matt tried to act casual, but he couldn’t keep his eyes from darting around frantically, trying to see if anyone was watching. He’d always been crap at undercover work.

 

“Matt,” Hiro called when he got close enough, apparently pretending to have just noticed that Matt was there. “How are you? I haven’t seen you in too long!”

 

“Yeah, hi,” Matt said, trying to play along. He felt about as sneaky as an elephant with a club foot.

 

“Do you have time for a cup of coffee?” Hiro asked.

 

“Sure,” Matt said slowly, not knowing what he was expected to do.

 

Hiro stood looking at him expectantly. “Do you know any place around here?” he asked finally.

 

At the corner of his mind, Matt thought he heard, not Hiro’s upbeat, accented tones, but a smooth, deeper voice: _Where are the other six, you half-wit?_

 

“Oh, oh, right,” Matt stammered. “This way.” He started back toward the street where the others were waiting. Hiro walked beside him, chatting casually, and Matt managed to give appropriate, if brief, responses when required. His mind was racing. It hadn’t been Hiro’s voice he heard in his head, but who else would know about the others? And maybe he was imagining things. His ability hadn’t worked for years, and there had been times, especially in the beginning, when he imagined he’d heard thoughts. He had fooled himself into recalling the ability he missed so much, just like feeling phantom pain in a severed limb. That must have been what happened this time; his better judgment had just chosen that moment to help him out and convey Hiro’s meaning.

 

When they turned the corner, out of sight of the Plaza, Hiro dropped his businessman pose and sighed in relief to see the other freed slaves waiting for them. “I’m glad you all made it out,” Hiro told them. “You did well, Matt. We must get out of here, though. Someone still might be watching. We need to make sure we aren’t followed.”

 

“That can be arranged,” said a strangely familiar voice. A man appeared out of thin air right next to Hiro. Matt recognized him immediately.

 

“Run! It’s Sylar!” Matt shouted before he threw himself at the man. He wasn’t sure what he hoped to accomplish, exactly. After all, his last showdown with Sylar had landed Matt in the hospital, riddled with bullets. Nevertheless, he had to try to give the others a chance to get away, so he tackled Sylar.

 

Both men fell and Sylar let out a startled “oof.” Surprised that his target had actually gone down, Matt found himself balling up his fists, striking at the man on the ground under him. Sylar pulled his hands up to try to block Matt’s blows, but there was, strangely, no telekinetic cutting, no freezing, no flying household objects.

 

“Matt Parkman! Stop, please!” Hiro grabbed Matt by the shoulder and tried to drag him off. “He’s a good guy!”

 

Matt paused in his frenzied punching to look up at Hiro, but then, from behind him, he heard, “What’s going on here?”

 

Matt knew that tone of voice when he heard it. He turned from Hiro to see a uniformed police officer staring down at him. “I…” Matt fumbled. It’s not like he could say anything remotely like the truth. “It’s…” The officer put his hands on his hips. People had begun to gather, attracted by the shouting. Out of the corner of his eye, Matt saw Hiro shoo the other rescued slaves toward the back of the crowd.

 

Suddenly, Matt felt himself shoved sideways to the ground, and Sylar was speaking. “Sorry for the disturbance, officer. I’ve been having a few problems with this new slave.”

 

“He’s yours?” the officer asked impassively.

 

Sylar stood and brushed himself off. “Sorry to say. A new acquisition.”

 

“Seemed to be getting the better of his master just now,” the cop said. A few onlookers snickered.

 

“Well.” Sylar gingerly felt the side of his face where Matt had hit him, and winced. “I didn’t think he’d try anything out in public like this, actually.”

 

The police man grabbed Matt’s right hand, turning it over to examine the tattoo on the wrist. He looked from the tattoo back to Sylar, and Matt saw his eyes dart to Sylar’s wrist, showing beyond his pushed-up sleeves: no tattoo. For a moment, Matt thought the officer was going to question them further, but then he cracked a small smile. “Bit off more than you could chew, yeah?” he asked Sylar as he dropped Matt’s hand.

 

Matt moved to get up, and Sylar grabbed him by the arm, hauling him to his feet. Matt would have shoved him away, but a warning glare from the cop convinced him that Sylar was the lesser of two evils right now. “I guess I should have known better than to buy him but…” Sylar shrugged with an endearing sheepishness that Matt found slightly disconcerting. “He was too good a bargain to pass up. I think I’ve learned my lesson, though.”

 

During this little speech, Matt saw Hiro shepherding the others down the street without a backward glance. He felt ill. Hiro was just going to leave him here with Sylar? Well, Matt had wanted to give them a chance to get away. He just hadn’t anticipated being left to Sylar’s tender mercies under the gaze of a police officer and a growing crowd.

 

“Hey,” the police officer said, dragging Matt’s attention back to him. “Are you going to behave for your master?”

 

Matt met Sylar’s eyes, which were unreadable, trying to gauge if making a scene would help or hurt Hiro’s getaway. Finally, although it pained him, he said, “Yes, sir.”

 

Matt felt the grip on his arm tighten, and Sylar said, “That’s better. Thanks for your help, officer. I guess this one needs a few more lessons in respect.”

 

“Good luck,” the cop said, and finally turned away. Seeing the gathered pedestrians, he said, “Move along folks. Everything’s taken care of.”

 

As the crowd began to disperse, Sylar dragged Matt down the sidewalk in the same direction Hiro had gone. After a few steps, Matt dug in his heels stubbornly, refusing to move. He hoped that Sylar wouldn’t want to make a scene, and he would be able to buy some more time for Hiro and the others to get away.

 

“Keep moving,” Sylar said. Matt felt a little telekinetic shove, not enough to be obvious to onlookers, but enough to propel him forward. “We get around the corner, away from this cop, and you can fight all you want,” Sylar growled under his breath.

 

Matt felt panic start to build. Sylar wasn’t the least bit concerned about Matt struggling. Not even a little. He could crush Matt like a bug any time, and his only concern was that there not be too many witnesses. There had never been any hope of Matt protecting anyone. Some hero.

 

Sylar half-dragged Matt the rest of the way down the sidewalk, and around the corner, before slamming him up against a building. “What’s wrong with you, Parkman?” Sylar snarled. “Are you trying to get us arrested?”

 

“Did you think I was just going to stand there and let you kill Hiro and the rest of us?” Matt asked with more bravado than he felt.

 

Sylar stared at him, mouth parted in confusion. “You thought I was--?” He let go of Matt. “That’s why you attacked me?” Matt tried to break away, but Sylar planted one hand on his chest to keep him against the wall. “Get yourself under control, Parkman. We’re on the same side.” When Matt laughed at that, Sylar let him go with a disgusted twist of his mouth and took off down the street again, where Hiro had presumably gone.

 

That left Matt with two equally unappealing options: letting Sylar go after his friends or trying to stop Sylar. Cursing under his breath, Matt ran after Sylar.  


* * *

 

These nightmares were getting tiresome. Three nights in a row Mandy had come to wake Nathan up, as he had requested her to do whenever there was any change in Peter’s condition. Last night Nathan had sat up with Peter for hours, and now Peter was supposed to be resting. Nathan didn’t have that luxury: there was work to do, work he _should_ be doing in D.C. But he couldn’t bring himself to leave Peter, not yet, so he’d called around with well-constructed excuses to get himself out of three days of meetings, and Mandy had called the house in Hyde Park to give his wife Heidi an equally well-constructed excuse about how meetings were keeping Nathan in D.C. for three days.

 

After all that trouble, though, he almost wished he was in a Ways and Means Committee meeting this afternoon, rather than suffering through another of these episodes. Mandy hadn’t needed to come get Nathan this time; he’d heard the commotion from his office, and suffered the curious and alarmed stares of every staff member he passed on his way to Peter’s room. Mandy was at Peter’s bedside as he screamed and struggled, trying to hold him down and keep him from hurting himself.

 

Nathan went to the other side of the bed. “I’ve got it, Mandy. You can go.” She nodded and practically fled the room, closing the door behind her.

 

Peter was still screaming, and even when Nathan shook him by the shoulders, he wouldn’t wake up. Nathan grabbed his brother by the shirt and hauled him onto the floor. As he tumbled off the bed, Peter stopped screaming abruptly and sat up, looking around wildly. Nathan knelt in front of him and put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s me. It’s Nathan. It’s okay. You’re awake now,” he said soothingly.

 

Peter stared at him without recognition, and for a terrible moment, Nathan thought Peter had lost it for sure. Then Peter shook his head and looked up at Nathan through his long lashes. “Sorry,” he said softly. “I had another nightmare.”

 

“Yeah.” Nathan glanced up at the bed, where the thousand-count blue sheets and the down comforter were hopelessly tangled. “I figured. Want to talk about it?”

 

Peter shook his head no. Of course. He hadn’t told Nathan what any of these supposed nightmares had been about. “Come on,” Nathan said. He sat on the bed, back against the headboard, and Peter crawled up after him, situating himself in front of Nathan, leaning back against his brother’s chest. They fit together so comfortably, Nathan couldn’t resist wrapping his arms around Peter’s waist.

 

There hadn’t been many times, even in the pre-slavery days, when Nathan had taken the time to simply be with Peter without expectation, without agenda. It felt good, and Nathan could see it was having a calming effect on Peter as well. “Are you okay?” he asked after a few minutes.

 

“It was just a nightmare,” Peter replied sleepily.

 

Nathan decided to press his luck. “Tell me something. Why’d you get bumped down a class?”

 

Nathan felt Peter tense in his arms, but at least he didn’t pull away. “You wouldn’t understand,” he said at last.

 

“You were safe as a class three,” Nathan said. “They couldn’t use you for the worst work, they couldn’t unnecessarily endanger your life. Why would you give them a reason to take that way from you?”

 

“Maybe because I’m able to think of something besides myself,” Peter said, but there was no heat behind the implied rebuke.

 

Nathan kissed the top of Peter’s head. “You always have to be the hero, Peter.” Dangerous territory, this. No need to dredge up ugly memories. Nathan tried to lighten the mood. “Older, but no wiser, right little brother?”

 

“I’m not a hero,” Peter said quickly. “It was nothing.”

 

“Must have been something if you got bumped down a class and sold,” Nathan said. When Peter didn’t respond to that, he added softly, “Tell me.”

 

Peter leaned against Nathan again, his resistance melted, and he began to tell the story. “My last owner was Sydney Harrington. She kept me around for personal use, and to look pretty at social events.” His voice was flat: not bitter, just resigned. That worried Nathan, and he held Peter a little tighter. “It wasn’t that bad,” Peter said quickly. “Better than an actual brothel, anyway.

 

“There was a party. I think it might have been a fundraiser for some charity, actually. It was on a Wednesday… Only last week.” Peter paused for a moment, and Nathan forced himself to be patient, to let Peter proceed at his own pace. “I was there with Sydney. She should have known better than to bring me; we hadn’t been getting along. I think she might have been planning to sell me, even before the party.” Nathan could tell that Peter was glossing over part of the situation, but he couldn’t ask for details now, so he said nothing. Peter went on. “She was mingling, and she cut me loose so she could talk business with someone. I knew most of the other escorts at the party, so I didn’t mind going off on my own.

 

“It’s funny really, that the other people who are in the same position, we get to know each other. Our masters go to all the same parties, so you meet people, make friends. There’s this guy I know whose owner keeps a place in Manhattan, actually, in our old neighborhood. We used to talk about it. He knew Vinnie, remember him? The butcher at that shop on the corner, where Heidi bought a goose that one Christmas?” Here, Peter trailed off as if he’d said something he hadn’t meant to, then forged ahead more quickly. “Anyway, that night there was a man I hadn’t met before, a slave who’d come with some businessman. Recent slave, must have been; he didn’t have the attitude rubbed off of him yet. He reminded me of someone.”

 

Peter paused for so long Nathan wondered if he intended to continue. “Who did he remind you of?” Nathan asked finally. When Peter didn’t respond, Nathan got it. “Oh,” he said.

 

“I didn’t even talk to this guy, but I watched him all night. There was dancing, I remember. I danced with Sydney, but we ran into another couple because I wasn’t watching where I was going, I was watching him.” Peter laughed, but it was clear the memory wasn’t a funny one. “Sydney was so mad. She said I was an embarrassment, but I think she knew my mind had been on someone else, and that’s what made her angry.

 

“We were going to leave, but on the way out I saw him, the man I’d been watching. He was arguing with his owner; they were both yelling. It was weird, because I’d never seen any slave at these parties misbehave so badly. You can get away with behavior like that in some places, but this wasn’t the time to be testing your owner, in front of all these people. It just wasn’t done in this kind of company. I could have told him that. Anyone could see it wasn’t going to end well.

 

“Then his owner hit him, knocked him down, and it shouldn’t have bothered me. I’d seen that same thing happen before, lots of times. But this time… I went over there and punched that owner right in the face.” Peter laughed, this time genuinely amused. “Everyone was so surprised. I hit him a couple more times before security got to me. I think I hit one of them, too, but…” He shrugged. “There were a lot of them, and they were a lot bigger.”

 

Recalling the bruises all over Peter’s body, Nathan nodded in understanding. “Your owner sold you so she wouldn’t lose face for your bad behavior.”

 

Peter nodded. “After I embarrassed her like that, she couldn’t do anything else. I’m probably lucky she didn’t petition to have me destroyed.”

 

Nathan felt his heart skip a beat at that. It was best not to think how close he’d come to losing Peter for good. “Why would you do that, Peter? If you knew you were putting yourself in danger, why?”

 

Peter craned his neck to look up at Nathan. “I just forgot, I guess, that he wasn’t really who he looked like, and I couldn’t stand to see… him… getting hurt.” He was about to say something else, but stopped himself abruptly and settled back against Nathan.

 

Even for someone as stubborn and idealistic as Peter, it had been a stupid chance to take. Nathan knew how the very rich felt about slaves who were violent, and Peter was certainly right about how lucky he’d been. Nathan ached to think that Peter had taken that stupid chance just because a slave reminded him of Nathan. Even though Peter was angry with his brother, even though he thought of Nathan as a traitor, Peter had still risked his life for someone who simply _reminded_ him of Nathan. Nathan held his brother even tighter, and wondered if he could ever live up to Peter’s love.  


* * *

 

 

Nora paused for a moment to listen to the shouting from upstairs, sending up a silent prayer of thanks that it wasn’t her day to clean the east wing. As it was, she might actually finish vacuuming in the back parlor by dinner time, if she could ignore this throbbing headache. She tucked a stray strand of mouse-brown hair out of her face, and bent to plug in the vacuum. The door of the parlor banged open, and Jordan walked in with a stack of trays balanced precariously in his gangly arms. He paused to look up at the ceiling.

 

“Sounds like an unhappy guest,” he said with a smirk.

 

“Josie said he might be a new slave. He looked kind of beat up, she said,” Nora replied, straightening. She and Jordan both knew it was more than their lives were worth to talk about any of this outside of the house, but the Petrellis were fools if they didn’t think the slaves in the household gossiped among themselves.

 

“Funny to put a slave in a guest room,” Jordan shrugged.

 

“Maybe just an eccentric friend, then. Mister Petrelli’s got enough of those. I mean…” Nora paused in the act of making a comment about Dr. Suresh. She didn’t mind talking about her powers because she didn’t miss them. In fact, she’d never known what they were. But she’d been on the list, and tests had confirmed that her genome was different, so here she was, a slave. Jordan, however, had told her that he’d been able to transport objects with his mind. He missed his powers, so maybe he wasn’t the best person with whom to discuss Dr. Suresh’s drug experiments. Instead, she said, “I’d better finish this up.”

 

“Right. Back to work,” Jordan said with a mock-tragic sigh, and trotted off toward the kitchen.

 

Nora turned the vacuum back on. She wanted to find someone to talk to about Suresh, and soon. She knew that he had to have tested his new drug on other slaves in the household. Maybe—. Suddenly she felt a pain in her abdomen, so sharp that she doubled over. The vacuum fell sideways with a mechanical squeal of protest as Nora lowered herself to the floor, gasping.

 

Nora focused on trying to breathe, on working through the pain. This would pass, she knew, as it had every other time in the past week or so. It was just a little worse this time, was all. As she tried to breathe, the air caught in her throat—she couldn’t get enough oxygen. Well, maybe it was a lot worse. Nora struggled for air as the pain became unbearable, and her vision began to blur around the edges. She saw Jordan running back into the room and then everything went black.  


* * *

 

 

When Hiro led them into the new safe house, a recently-vacant studio apartment not far from St. Luke’s, the argument was still going on.

 

“How was I supposed to know he was one of us?” Matt asked, irritation making his voice sharp.

 

“Maybe because Hiro said, ‘Stop, he’s a good guy,’” Shelly muttered.

 

“It was my fault,” Gabriel said calmly. “I shouldn’t have surprised you like that. I should have known it would scare you.”

 

“I wasn’t scared,” Matt protested.

 

Ando had come to meet them at the door, and Hiro gave him a long-suffering sigh. “Don’t ask,” Hiro said. “Are the others settled in alright?”

 

“Sure,” said Ando. “They’ll be glad to know everyone is safe.”

 

Hiro shook his head. “D.L. didn’t make it.”

 

Ando bowed his head for a moment. “Dead?” he asked.

 

“I’m not sure. Maybe they took him alive. We have no way to know,” Hiro said.

 

“So what do we do?” Ando asked quietly, glancing behind Hiro at the new group of former slaves who were talking or arguing amongst themselves in the hallway.

 

“I want to talk to everyone together,” said Hiro. “We have to change our plans.” Ando nodded and headed off to the other end of the studio to retrieve the rest of the team. Hiro turned back to the others. Most of them were watching Matt and Gabriel’s argument with growing discomfort.

 

“Just so we’re clear: I don’t like you, and I don’t trust you,” Matt was saying.

 

“That’s your choice.” Gabriel replied calmly, and tried to walk past Matt.

 

Matt stepped in front of him. “You shot me.”

 

“Technically, you shot me first. On more than one occasion, as I remember.”

 

“But I didn’t hit you,” Matt said.

 

“Not for lack of trying,” Gabriel retorted, showing a little of his growing irritation.

 

That was Hiro’s cue to take action. “Okay.” Hiro stepped between the two. “Maybe this is not the time to have this fight.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Gabriel said immediately. “You’re right. We have other things to worry about. I’m sorry,” he repeated to Matt.

 

Hiro looked pleadingly at Matt until he, too, backed down. “Fine. We can talk about this later.”

 

“Thank you,” said Hiro to both of them. Ando had assembled the rest of the team on and around the furniture the studio’s previous tenant had left behind: cunning little Ikea chairs, a few elegant sofas, carved wooden tables, and an unusual metal sculpture that served as a bench. “Take a seat,” Hiro told the newcomers.

 

Together, it looked like a big group: eleven seasoned veterans, including Ando and himself, and seven nervous slaves only a few days out of captivity. They still numbered under twenty, but they had more than enough people to pull off this next mission, as long as the planning was good. Once everyone had seated themselves as comfortably as possible, they all turned expectantly to Hiro.

 

Hiro had not intended to make a speech. Speeches were not easy things to make effectively, but a hero didn’t always get to choose his path: if he needed to make a speech, he would. Ando gave him an encouraging smile, and Hiro began the meeting. “Not all of you know each other. Those of you who are new to us have these people to thank for your freedom.” Hiro gestured toward the veteran members of his team. “Each of them,” he looked pointedly from Gabriel to Matt, “Risked his life to take all of you from that detention center. Now, if you’re willing to help us in our mission, you have the chance to make a difference and help those with special abilities who are still enslaved.”

 

“How can we help?” asked the balding man. Fred, Hiro remembered. “We don’t have abilities anymore.”

 

“It doesn’t take special powers to be a hero,” Hiro said, and many of his team members smiled or nodded at Hiro’s familiar mantra.

 

“Besides,” Ando said. “How do you know your powers won’t come back?” That provoked a few hopeful smiles.

 

“What do you want us to do?” asked the red-headed woman. What was her name? Shelly, that was it.

 

“We have been working on a plan for another operation like the one that freed all of you,” Hiro explained. “Now we must go ahead with the plan ahead of schedule.”

 

The veteran members of Hiro’s team began to protest, but Hiro held up a hand to stop them. “D.L. is gone,” he said. Hiro allowed a moment of silence for them to process that news before he continued. “We don’t know if they took him alive, but we have to assume the worst. D.L. can’t hold out forever. Eventually, he’ll tell them what he knows.”

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Lara, one of the veterans. She’d been working with D.L. for years before they both came to Hiro’s team; they were proud of the fact that neither of them had ever been caught, ever been Cured. Her cocoa-colored skin was unmarked by any helix slave tattoo. “D.L.’s not a traitor.”

 

“No, he certainly isn’t,” Hiro said firmly. “But everyone has their breaking point. We just have to act quickly to make sure that they won’t be able to use what D.L. can tell them.”

 

“So how do we do that, exactly?” Matt asked.

 

“D.L. was helping us plan our next rescue. We were going to wait a few more weeks and let the uproar over your break-out die down, but now…” Hiro trailed off.

 

“This is going to be a lot harder without D.L.,” Lara said gloomily.

 

“Harder, but not impossible,” said Alai, another veteran. He was a former Army Ranger who was dishonorably discharged when his name appeared on The List. He spoke with a calm deliberateness, as one who doesn’t like to jump to conclusion. “We can adjust the plan to work with what we have. And what we have is not exactly useless.” He nodded to Gabriel and to Lara.

 

Another one of the veterans, Dean, added his two cents. “With more people, we should be able to disable all the security systems at once.” Dean had been handling much of the group’s technology, especially as it related to their missions. He was the typical nerdy twenty-something, scrawny and owlish, but he’d been fiercely dedicated to the mission since Hiro and friends broke him out of a detention facility in Queens. “It’ll be a lot safer that way.”

 

“We’ll need everyone’s help to get ready in time,” Hiro said, looking at each person in turn. “Those who know what they are doing will be able to help those of you who are new. If we succeed in this…” He took a deep breath. “I know things are hard for each of you. Sometimes it seems that we’re not doing enough to change things. I promise, if we succeed with this mission, things will change. We’ll be ready.” That was not precisely what he meant to say, but it was good enough, Hiro decided. At least, the others took it as a dismissal. The veterans headed back to their work, chatting as they went, many of them offering Hiro a smile or a clap on the back, and most of them took one of the newcomers along when they left the room.

 

Ando stayed with Hiro until the others had gone. Then he spoke in Japanese. “Even with all this new help, it will take at least a week to prepare.”

 

“Then let’s hope D.L. can hold out a week,” Hiro said gravely.

 

“If he tells them where we’re going, they’ll be waiting for us,” Ando pointed out. “They could capture us all.”

 

“I think D.L. can hold out as long as he needs to about this particular mission. He knows what’s at stake.”

 

“Yes. But still, there’s always a chance,” Ando fretted. He came closer to Hiro and spoke softly. “You’re sure that we need to do this… To make what Isaac painted happen?”

 

Hiro nodded earnestly. “I’m sure.”

 

“So we’ll do it,” Ando said. “But we’ll need a super clever plan.”

 

“Well,” Hiro said with a grin. “Then it’s a good thing you’re not in charge of planning.”  


* * *


	8. Chapter 8

It hadn’t been hard for Peter to give his keepers the slip. Although he didn’t have invisibility anymore, he found he still had the knack for keeping out of sight. He wasn’t sure he would have been able to sneak by Nathan, but Nathan was spending the day in DC for some big meeting he hadn’t been able to get out of. Peter wasn’t going to do anything stupid, anyway. He was just sick of walls, of cages. In sneaking out of the house, he’d seen only one other person: a gangly young man carrying a tall stack of dishes, with whom he almost collided. The man had simply averted his eyes, muttered an apology, and scurried away, so Peter didn’t think he was running off to tell Mandy. Outside, the gardens behind the house were a nice change, even if the crisp wind was a little colder than was comfortable.

 

“Hello Peter.”

 

Peter didn’t need to turn around to identify the voice, but he looked anyway, just out of curiosity. Mohinder Suresh hadn’t changed much since Peter had seen him last: a little more worn around the edges, maybe, but still composed, still with the buoyant aura of self-righteousness.

 

“Hello Mohinder,” Peter said. 

 

“How are you feeling?” Mohinder asked.

 

It was a silly question, so Peter just shrugged in answer and kept walking. 

 

“Your brother is worried about you,” Mohinder said conversationally, and followed after Peter.

 

“He should be.”

 

Mohinder picked up his pace so he could walk beside Peter. “You know, Nathan doesn’t want me to talk to you.”

 

“That’s ironic.” Peter managed a small smile. “I didn’t really expect to see you here.”

 

“This is where I do my research,” Mohinder explained. “I have an experimental laboratory here.”

 

“Experimental?” Peter asked, more out of politeness than interest.

 

“Genetic work to refine what I know of blocking special abilities… and unblocking them,” he explained. “Listen, Peter. We don’t have much time. If your brother finds out that I spoke with you, he’ll start asking questions. Do you remember Hiro Nakamura?”

 

Another stupid question. Wasn’t Mohinder supposed to be brilliant? “You know I do.”

 

“What I’m about to tell you can’t be repeated to anyone, even your brother.” When Peter nodded, Mohinder went on. “Hiro Nakamura leads a small group of resistance fighters. I’m working with him to rescue slaves from captivity and restore their abilities.”

 

Peter’s mouth turned up at the sides. “That’s ironic, too. Mister Savior of Humanity, Great Inventor of the Cure, Author of the List, Creator of—.”

 

“Yes, I know,” Mohinder cut in irritably. “I’d like your help. I’d like a sample of your DNA, so I can see how taking Cure has affected it. I think it might help with my research. There might be a way to spread the effects of an injection I’ve created, because your power involves re-sequencing your DNA to mimic—.”

 

“Sure, take some DNA,” Peter interrupted with another shrug. He sat down on a stone bench by the side of the path and waited for Mohinder to join him before asking, “Does Nathan know about this?”

 

“Absolutely not.” Mohinder shuddered at the thought.

 

Peter considered that a moment. So Mohinder was here, but he wasn’t really behind Nathan’s mission, whatever that was. He had his own mission. Hadn’t he said something about…? “You said you can restore people’s abilities.”

 

Mohinder frowned at this turn in the conversation. “The treatment is still in the trials stages, but—.”

 

“Give it to me,” Peter interrupted.

 

“What?”

 

“The treatment, whatever it is.”

 

Mohinder struggled to find what he wanted to say. “Peter, I don’t think--.”

 

“Are you afraid I’ll explode?” Peter asked, his eyes narrowing in warning.

 

Mohinder backpedaled. “It’s not that.”

 

“What is it then?” Peter had a dangerous glint in his eyes now, and he could see that Mohinder was starting to regret talking to him.

 

“The treatment is still in the trial stages,” Mohinder temporized. “It could be dangerous.”

 

Peter knew Mohinder was vulnerable to emotion, so he told the truth. “I would give anything to have my powers again, Mohinder.” 

 

Mohinder flinched, and for a moment, Peter thought he had him. “Peter, when I’m sure that it works, and it’s safe, I will absolutely give it to you,” Mohinder said, retreating into the comforting condescension of a doctor giving bad news. “But now, I need your help.”

 

“Why would you tell me about this treatment if you weren’t going to give it to me?” Peter asked incredulously. “That’s sadistic.”

 

“I didn’t mean for you to…” Mohinder stood and took a few steps away from the bench, shaking his head. “Listen, Peter, you have a chance to be a hero.”

 

“I am not a hero,” Peter said fiercely, jumping up. “Despite what you think, there’s nothing I have that can help anyone. I can’t even help myself, Mohinder.” He checked himself before he could say something he’d regret. It was time for a new tactic. “Give me the treatment or I will tell Nathan what you’re doing.”

 

Mohinder stared at him. “You wouldn’t.”

 

“Try me,” Peter said. He stood his ground and kept eye contact with Mohinder, a trick he’d learned from his brother, who had always known how to bully. 

 

After a few seconds Mohinder backed down, and said sullenly, “Threatening me is hardly necessary, Peter. I came out here at my own risk to help you.”

 

“So _help_ me,” Peter said.

 

“All right,” Mohinder sighed. “I’ll need to give you a shot. I can try to meet you—.”

 

“No, now,” Peter said, glancing around the garden. Mohinder was right: they didn’t have much time. “Whatever it is, we have to do it now while Nathan’s away.”

 

Mohinder nodded reluctantly and led Peter to a small door in the back of the house that Peter didn’t remember. Mohinder keyed in a code on a keypad next to the door, which looked out of place on the mansion’s ivy-covered brick exterior. The door revealed a flight of stairs which led down into a modestly sized but apparently well-equipped lab. 

 

Mohinder headed directly for a cabinet on the far side of the room, pulling out a syringe and a vial of clear liquid. Peter watched as Mohinder filled the syringe, fighting down the ingrained panic response at the sight of the needle. Mohinder wasn’t going to hurt him, Peter told himself fiercely. He was consenting to this, he had asked Mohinder to give him this shot. Repeating this in his head over and over, he was able to rein in his panic by the time Mohinder had the injection ready.

 

Peter rolled up his sleeve, and Mohinder gave him one last guilty look. “Don’t make me regret this, Peter,” he said, and then he pressed the syringe into the vein on the inside of Peter’s arm. 

 

“You can stop taking Cure pills now,” Mohinder explained as Peter pointedly focused on Mohinder’s face instead of on his own arm. “You’ll need one injection a day for two weeks, but after that, you shouldn’t need anything. There.” Mohinder pulled out the needle and pressed a square of gauze onto Peter’s arm. “If you start to feel—.”

 

“Doctor Suresh?” a voice echoed down the stairs. Peter recognized it: Mandy. Mohinder and Peter both froze. “Are you down there?”

 

“There’s a back stairway,” Mohinder hissed, pointing urgently to an opening on the back wall of the lab. “Down the corridor, to the right.”

 

Peter grabbed the syringe out of Mohinder’s hand and the vial of medicine from the table where Mohinder had set it. 

 

“What are you--?” Mohinder asked anxiously, making a grab for his things. Peter held them out his reach.

 

“Once a day,” Peter whispered. “For two weeks.”

 

“Yes,” Mohinder protested softly. “But let me—.”

 

“Doctor Suresh?” Mandy called again.

 

Peter sped around the corner and was gone before Mohinder could say anything else. He knew he should head right for the staircase like Mohinder had told him, but he couldn’t resist the chance to hear what Mandy had to say. He flattened himself against the wall of the corridor and listened. 

 

“There you are,” Mandy said pleasantly. “One of the slaves is asking for you. She says it’s something about some medicine you gave her?”

 

“Which slave?” Mohinder asked.

 

“Nora. She’s a housekeeper.” 

 

“Where is she?” he demanded. Peter wondered why this slave was so important, and why Mohinder seemed so concerned about her. 

 

“They had to take her to the hospital,” Mandy said, and she seemed just as puzzled by Mohinder’s concern. “She fainted this afternoon. But she seems to think you might know what’s wrong with her. I wasn’t sure what she was talking about. If she’s wrong, then I’m sorry to bother you with this, and—.”

 

“No,” Mohinder said quickly. “Just tell me which hospital they took her to.”

* * *

Staring at the building plan didn’t make it any different. There were still just as many thick walls, fire doors, and security stations as there had been when Hiro first laid the blueprint out on the kitchen table, only now the whole thing blurred in and out of focus and he struggled to keep his eyes open. Hiro didn’t really mind running on three hours of sleep. He was used to that. What he did mind was the all-consuming nature of the mission lately. There was no time for folding cranes or reading comic books or teaching Ando Bushido sword-fighting. He thought of Future Hiro in the world where the bomb destroyed New York: distant, emotionless, callous, a killer. Hiro would follow his mission, but he could not afford to become that.

 

“Hiro?” 

 

Hiro was pulled out of his melancholy by the gentle interruption. Gabriel stood a few feet off, clutching a large sheet of rolled-up paper in his hands. “Can I talk to you?” Gabriel asked.

 

“Yes, of course.” Hiro put the building plan aside and nodded to the rolled-up paper Gabriel was holding. “Did you have a chance to go over that back-up plan Lara and Alai drew up?”

 

“I did, but that’s not what this is,” Gabriel said. 

 

“A new plan?” Hiro asked excitedly. Any plan Gabriel provided was almost always devastatingly successful; he had a certain knack for making things work.

 

“Sort of,” Gabriel said, but he made no move to show the paper. “Hiro, I want to see the painting.”

 

Hiro froze. “What painting?”

 

“Isaac Mendez painted it,” Gabriel said in a tone that said he knew Hiro knew what he was talking about.

 

Except that Gabriel shouldn’t know what he was talking about. Exactly two people knew about that painting: Hiro and Ando. That was it, and that was the way it had to stay if Hiro was to have any chance of carrying out his mission. “Who told you about that?” Hiro asked, trying to keep his voice level.

 

“No one told me,” Gabriel said quickly. “Look Hiro, if you don’t want to show me, I understand. It’s just that… I was sketching last night. I drew this.” Gabriel unrolled the paper in his hand and held it out to Hiro. 

 

There were some powers Hiro would be content to forget Gabriel had. He didn’t mind invisibility, the ultra-sensitive hearing, the telekinesis; they were useful. It was just strange to think of certain abilities, knowing how Sylar had gotten them. That was the way of things with Isaac: Hiro could picture his body on the floor of the studio, sightless eyes staring up. Poor Isaac… There were other powers about which Hiro felt the same way. Charlie... He shook his head. Refusing to use their abilities wouldn’t bring either of them back; Hiro took the paper from Gabriel and unrolled it.

 

It was a drawing: not Isaac’s comic-book style, but a pencil sketch with lots of sharp angles and dark lines. Hiro recognized himself and Gabriel facing each other over the table in this very room, with a canvas stretched out between them. The image on the canvas wasn’t visible from the drawing’s ground-level perspective, but part of the canvas draped over the edge of the table in the foreground, and on it was the artist’s signature: I. Mendez. 

 

What interested Hiro was not the signature, however. It was the burn marks that marred the visible corner of the canvas in the drawing, creating an uneven edge. The painting Hiro had so carefully kept secret had the very same markings, souvenirs of the fire that had destroyed Isaac’s loft only two months after his death. There was no way anyone could have guessed the painting would be damaged like that.

 

“I think you’re supposed to show me the painting,” Gabriel explained. 

 

“No one’s seen it,” Hiro whispered. “Not even Ando.”

 

“Okay,” Gabriel said graciously, and began rolling up the drawing. “It’s fine. I just had to ask.”

 

“Gabriel, it’s just… It’s very important. It shows how we can change everything, how we can fix all of this,” Hiro said desperately. Hiro had trusted in the truth of Isaac’s painting for so long that belief in its ability to make the world right was a part of him. But the same gift that had painted _that_ painting had created _this_ one. Was the gift any less prophetic because a different man wielded the power? “I’m worried that if something goes wrong, what’s in the painting might not happen,” Hiro admitted. 

 

Gabriel shrugged. “Hiro, I understand. There’s no reason on Earth why you should show me the picture if you don’t want to. It’s fine. I’m not offended.”

 

“Gabriel…” Hiro began, then faltered under Gabriel’s open, inquisitive glance. How could Hiro not repay Gabriel’s absolute loyalty with some measure of trust? If he trusted Isaac’s power this much, he had to trust Gabriel’s power equally. “I will show you the painting. But not now. After we finish this next mission, okay?”

 

“Thank you, Hiro.” Gabriel smiled. “That means a lot to me.”

* * *

Nathan wasn’t sure how long he could get Peter to stay in this room, but for now playing the you’re-hurt-and-need-to-rest-or-do-you-want-me-to-get-you-a-doctor-after-all card was working, and Peter was content to spend the day reading and resting in his room as long as Nathan kept him company. This morning, Nathan had brought up more of his never-ending pile of paperwork, and was balancing it on his lap while he reclined in one of the room’s massive armchairs.

 

According to Mandy, nothing had gone wrong yesterday while Nathan had been in DC, but it felt better to be here, just in case. Not that being in the same room with his brother for hours at a time was comfortable or relaxing. Every time Nathan looked up, he caught Peter’s eyes on him, watching him with an almost predatory alertness. Peter looked too much like his old self; without comment, he’d begun wearing the clothes Nathan had retrieved from his old apartment years ago. They were a little too big on him now, but they still reminded Nathan too much of the old Peter. Nathan had resolved to stop looking. No more looking. Really, this time. Absolutely none. 

 

Nathan was concentrating fiercely on work when Peter got up from the bed where he’d been reading and padded barefoot across the room to select another book, conveniently choosing a shelf right above Nathan. While Peter hovered, Nathan made another note on the legal pad on his lap, waiting to see if there was more to Peter’s move. Once Peter had selected a book, he simply stood next to Nathan’s chair. Apparently it was Nathan’s turn. 

 

“Something on your mind?” Nathan asked mildly.

 

“Is there something wrong with me?” Peter asked without preamble. 

 

Nathan tried to imagine a correct answer to that question. There wasn’t one. “What do you mean?” he asked.

 

“You want me to be me, right?” 

 

Nathan put down his pen. “Yes. I thought I made that clear.”

 

“But you aren’t treating me like Peter.”

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Nathan asked warily.

 

Peter dropped the book to the floor and deftly swung up onto the chair, straddling Nathan. “You won’t do more than kiss me,” he accused.

 

This could not be going anywhere good. “You’re hurt,” Nathan pointed out, keeping his voice calm and level as if there were nothing perilous about having Peter ask these questions while sitting on his lap.

 

“Not that badly.”

 

“Don’t you think it’s a little soon?” Nathan asked, pleased that he was able to keep alarm out of his voice.

 

“It’s not too soon,” Peter whispered. He pulled off his shirt, stretching languidly like a cat and dropping it to the side of the chair. Nathan couldn’t help looking at the body displayed in front of him: it might just be that he hadn’t seen them for a few days, but the bruises looked much better, having progressed to shades of yellow and green rather than dark purple. Most of the cuts had faded to red lines. Maybe Peter was right about not being as badly hurt as Nathan thought. Still, Nathan told himself firmly, Peter was not ready for this. _He_ wasn’t ready for this. 

 

But Peter had already draped his arms around Nathan’s neck and moved in close. “And it’s not too late,” Peter breathed against Nathan’s mouth. Peter moved in for a kiss, but stopped a fraction of an inch away, pulled back, moved in again, and stopped. 

 

“Okay,” Nathan broke in. “Do you want to tell me what this is all about?”

 

Inches from his face, Peter smiled grimly. “If you can’t figure it out for yourself, there’s no point in my telling you.”

 

Peter slid gracefully off the edge of chair and leaned back onto the floor, giving Nathan a menacing smile before stretching again languidly. He ran his hands lazily over his body, his head thrown back, mouth slightly open, the very picture of sensual indulgence. This had never been part of their game before, and Nathan tried to avoid thinking about where and when Peter had picked up these new skills. But Nathan had to keep looking, even though he knew any hope of resisting Peter was vanishing as heat began to flow to his groin. This was not the way the conversation should be going.

 

Now Peter was writhing on the floor, squirming out of his pants, his briefs, now grabbing his cock, already half-hard, and stroking it in long, slow pulls while he locked eyes with Nathan. Nathan found himself gripping the arms of the chair, his breath ragged in the silence, unable to tear his eyes away from his brother. “Trying to tell me something, Peter?” Nathan asked. He was going for detached sarcasm, but the rough edges of his voice revealed his failing self-control. 

 

In answer, Peter rolled onto his knees, crawling to the chair and pushing Nathan’s legs apart. Nathan allowed it. Peter managed to undo Nathan’s belt without looking at it, keeping his gaze fixed on Nathan’s face, those brown eyes burning holes in him. No underwear, of course, and Peter’s smile widened when he realized it. No need to remove the belt, or the pants, not after a lifetime of being trained not to muss Nathan any more than absolutely necessary: Peter had only to pull Nathan’s proud erection free of the confines of his clothing. Next Peter reached out, each hand pinning Nathan’s wrists to the chair’s arms, and he finally broke eye contact to turn his attention to Nathan’s cock, going at it with mouth alone. 

 

Released from the shackles of Peter’s gaze, Nathan looked up to the ceiling, fighting to keep his self-control, to block the mental picture of his cock disappearing into Peter’s mouth, to ignore the delicious feeling of Peter’s tongue rolling around the tip, his teeth gently brushing the underside. It was a losing battle. Peter held Nathan’s wrists firmly, denying him the option of either pushing Peter away or pulling him closer, taking away his responsibility in this act, at least. By the time Peter pulled back, Nathan was a quivering mess. 

 

Looking entirely too pleased with himself, Peter laid back on the rug in front of the chair, propped up on his elbows. A grin tugged at one corner of his mouth as he waited for Nathan to make his move. 

 

“Bed,” Nathan ordered, proud that his voice didn’t shake.

 

“Floor,” Peter replied coolly.

 

“Bed,” Nathan repeated with more force.

 

“Floor,” Peter sing-songed back. 

 

Before Nathan could reply, Peter held up two fingers and stuck them in his mouth, keeping his eyes locked on Nathan as he licked them, running his tongue over them as he’d done to Nathan’s cock just moments ago. Then, making sure he still had Nathan’s attention, he spread his legs and pushed the two moistened fingers into his ass, slowly pumping them in and out. He let his head hang back, and Nathan heard a small moan escape as Peter finger-fucked himself slowly, displaying himself for Nathan’s pleasure. 

 

Nathan moved before he realized he’d decided to do so, pouncing on Peter with a throaty growl. He grabbed one of Peter’s legs, settling it onto his shoulder as he batted Peter’s hand out of the way, replacing Peter’s fingers almost immediately with his own cock, a hurried thrust that brought him just inside the ring of muscle. Once inside, it felt so comfortable, so damn good. Peter’s body was like a familiar song whose memory Nathan had worn out from replaying. Now that he was with Peter, in Peter, it all came back, and he was distantly amazed that he’d lived without this for so long. 

 

Beyond caution and beyond games, Nathan split his brother open beneath him, unable to make himself slow down. He knew from Peter’s small, animal sounds that he was hitting the right spot, that despite the scant preparation, pleasure was outshining the pain. Peter scratched at the carpet, clutching desperately for a hold on anything. When Nathan planted his free hand on the ground, he found Peter’s arm hooked around his shoulder, Peter’s fingers digging painfully into the muscles of his back. 

 

Peter pushed back up against Nathan, tilting his hips off the floor to meet each thrust with a short, high-pitched grunt. Nathan smiled at the man spread beneath him, at Peter’s eyes closed tight, his forehead creased, his lips parted slightly. A particularly strong cry from Peter brought Nathan to a halt. “You okay, Pete?” he asked breathlessly. 

 

Peter’s eyes flew open, locking onto Nathan’s. “Don’t stop,” he panted, and tried to pull Nathan into him again. 

 

Nathan held himself back. “You sure you’re okay?” he asked, running his thumb against the creases in Peter’s brow. 

 

“Please,” Peter whined in frustration, trying to thrust up enough to take Nathan inside of him.

 

With one hand on Peter’s hip, Nathan held him still. “Please what?” he asked.

 

“Please, Nathan.” Peter tried to move, and again Nathan held him down. “Please! Finish it! Fuck me!”

 

Nathan relented, plunging back inside his brother while Peter reached between them, wrapping his free hand around his swollen cock and frantically pumping it in rhythm with Nathan’s thrusts. 

 

Peter threw his head back again, panting out his pleasure in quickening gasps as Nathan picked up the pace. “Nathan,” Peter gasped between thrusts, and that was all it took. Nathan was coming, spilling into Peter, his back arching tightly. 

 

Peter was right behind him, a few frantic motions before Nathan felt warmth explode against his shirt as Peter went rigid beneath him, and then slack. 

 

Nathan half-led, half-pulled a boneless Peter back into the armchair. Peter settled into Nathan’s lap like a child, curling up against him with his head on Nathan’s shoulder, arms around his neck. It felt odd to hold his naked brother, his skin sweat-slick against Nathan’s clothes. Nathan had never been a cuddler, but now he held Peter until the sweat was dry, until the heartbeat he felt against his chest slowed, until Peter’s breath against his neck was calm and steady. Maybe it was just post-orgasm euphoria, but Nathan suddenly had the feeling that he hadn’t really gotten Peter back until this moment.

 

“I’m sorry,” Nathan muttered, so fast and low that he wasn’t sure it had come out at all.

 

For a moment, nothing happened. Then Peter pulled away so that he could look Nathan in the eye. Nathan felt a little sick; Peter was going to call him out, to ask him why he’d done what he’d done, to ask why he hadn’t found Peter sooner, to demand a better apology, to say that “I’m sorry” could never be enough. Instead, Peter pressed his forehead against Nathan’s and held it there. Nathan felt Peter nod, and then Peter laid his head back down on Nathan.

* * *


	9. Chapter 9

Mohinder had no idea what he was going to tell Hiro. He hadn’t dared hint on the phone at what he needed to say, and Hiro had simply told him a time and a subway station. Mohinder had the whole ride to Columbus Circle to think grim thoughts about how he would break it to the group that he might have killed them all.

 

He was no closer to a plan at ten past eight when he found himself on the platform, clutching his briefcase and scanning the crowd for a familiar face. It took Mohinder a moment to recognize Sylar, since he hadn’t been looking for _him_ and, truthfully, sweaters and Dockers weren’t included in his mental image of Sylar. “Where’s D.L.?” Mohinder asked immediately.

 

Sylar frowned. “D.L.’s gone. I thought you might have known, actually.”

 

“Gone?” Mohinder repeated skeptically.

 

“The safe house they took you to was raided,” Sylar explained, taking Mohinder’s arm and leading him away from the station.

 

Mohinder was so surprised that he forgot to take offence at physical contact with Sylar. “Did they find out about the drug?” he asked urgently,

 

“Always thinking of your research,” Sylar said, with an edge of disgust. “D.L. got all the others out, but Homeland Security got him.”

 

It took Mohinder a second to process that. When he did, he felt the blood drain from his face. “But, if they have him, he might tell them about the treatment,” Mohinder said frantically. “Or about me. They might—.”

 

“Mohinder, we know,” Sylar interrupted, a bit tersely. “Hiro has thought of all that. We’re moving up our timetable. He’ll explain everything.”

 

They walked in silence for a block or so. Mohinder found his mind racing in circles. The possibility of being exposed to Homeland Security was too horrible to think about. He didn’t have any family for them to threaten, but if they discovered he’d been helping renegade slaves regain their powers with a new treatment he’d developed in secret… They’d spent years refining just the right punishments for traitors and terrorists, and even Nathan wouldn’t be able to protect him.

 

“There’s something wrong with the drug, isn’t there.” Though it was not loud, Sylar’s voice cut sharply into Mohinder’s brooding.

 

“What?” He blinked at Sylar.

 

“There are pills in that case. I can hear them,” Sylar explained. “You don’t need pills if you’re giving them all injections.” Sylar kept walking, and Mohinder only now realized that Sylar still had hold of his arm. Irritated, he tried to pull free, but Sylar tightened his grip and shook his head. “We want to stay invisible right now.”

 

Reluctantly, Mohinder abandoned his efforts to shake Sylar off. “My treatment is none of your business,” he said coldly.

 

“None of my business that you put my friends in danger?” Sylar shot back.

 

“Your _friends?_ ” Mohinder reddened. Never mind that he’d been berating himself the whole day, since he’d learned about Nora’s condition, for going ahead with this before he was absolutely sure. Of all people, for Sylar to accuse him—it was unbearable. “How dare you?”

 

“I’m sorry,” Sylar said immediately. “I know it was an accident. You didn’t know there was something wrong last week, when you gave them the drugs.” There was an almost imperceptible pause. “Right?”

 

“Of course not,” Mohinder growled through clenched teeth.

 

“I know how you hate to be wrong,” Sylar said with a sympathetic glance.

 

“You don’t know anything about me,” Mohinder bristled.

 

“That’s not true, and you know it.” Sylar looked at him in reproach, but kept walking, as if their moving would keep the conversation from coming to blows. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out the way you wanted it to. They’ve all been so excited about getting their powers back. I understand how that must make you feel.”

 

That was quite enough. “How, Sylar? How could you possibly understand what I feel?” Mohinder shouted.

 

Sylar halted and took a quick look around, apparently to see if Mohinder’s yelling had attracted any unwanted attention. When he was satisfied that no Homeland Security patrols were running to intercept them, he replied serenely, “In the past few months I’ve learned a lot about guilt.”  


* * *

 

Hiro didn’t like the nervous looks Ando kept giving him as the team members arranged themselves haphazardly on and about the room’s mismatched furniture. Whatever Mohinder had come to tell them must be bad. Ando would have no way of knowing for sure, of course, but he was a champion worrier. Gabriel also seemed to sense that something was wrong. He hovered close to Mohinder, as if he expected the scientist to collapse at any moment.

 

Once everyone was settled, Mohinder stood in front of the group. He looked like he was going to be sick. Hiro gave him an encouraging smile, but Mohinder glanced quickly away. “I have some news… I’m afraid it’s about the new drug.” Mohinder paused, seemingly unsure how to proceed.

 

“What about it?” Ando asked at last.

 

“It might be nothing,” Mohinder said quickly, then seemed unable to go further.

 

“But it might be something,” Matt Parkman finished.

 

Mohinder took a deep breath and released it before announcing, “One of the people I tested the drug on got sick yesterday.”

 

There was a moment of brittle silence. “The drug’s not safe,” Ando said. It wasn’t a question.

 

“I don’t know for sure,” Mohinder admitted.

 

“You gave that drug to them,” Ando said with a wave of his hand at the seated former slaves. “You gave it to Hiro,”

 

“It was our choice to try the drug,” Hiro interrupted before Ando could get on a roll. “We knew there were no guarantees.”

 

“What’s wrong with it, exactly? I mean, you said someone got sick?” Alai asked, leaning forward earnestly. “Are you sure they got sick from the drug?”

 

“How sick? We going to die from this?” Shelly broke in.

 

“As I said, I have no way to know for sure if she got sick from the drug, but it’s certainly possible,” Mohinder explained.

 

“We haven’t felt any effects so far, have we?” Hiro asked, and all the others shook their heads.

 

“Except… I thought it was working,” Matt said.

 

“What do you mean?” Mohinder turned to him sharply.

 

“The other day, I…” Matt stumbled to a stop as everyone in the room gave him their undivided attention. “I thought I might have felt my powers again. Just a little.”

 

“How? I mean, what’s your power?” Lara asked.

 

“I used to be able to hear thoughts,” Matt said. “The other day, at Kirby Plaza, I thought… It was probably just my imagination, though.”

 

“What did you hear?” Hiro asked curiously. He doubted Matt had heard anything he’d been thinking that day. If he had, the rendezvous might have gone more smoothly.

 

“I don’t remember,” Matt mumbled.

 

“Where are the other six, you half-wit,” Gabriel said suddenly. Everyone turned to stare at him, and Matt’s eyes widened.

 

“I was invisible, but that wouldn’t matter to your power. At that moment, I remember I thought you’d understood something. Your heart sort of stuttered…Skipped a beat, maybe. But I guess I didn’t think you actually could have heard me,” Gabriel said, and the corner of his mouth turned up a little. “I don’t really think you’re a half-wit, Matt.”

 

Matt glared at him. “Thanks,” he said dryly.

 

Hiro allowed himself a moment of hope. If Matt had been able to use his power, then Mohinder’s drug might actually be able to reverse the effects of Cure. He’d wanted to believe it might be possible, but he hadn’t really allowed himself to hope, until now. If he could have his powers back, he could fix anything. Bringing together the puzzle pieces to create Isaac’s painting wouldn’t be an impossible task if he had his powers. Wasn’t that worth a little risk? From the looks on the faces of the rest of the team, everyone was having similar thoughts.

 

“So, let me get this straight,” Alai said slowly, turning back to Mohinder. “The treatment might actually be working?”

 

“That’s what it sounds like,” Mohinder said in confusion. “But none of the others ever reported any resurgence of their powers.”

 

“Would they know?” Dean asked with a trace of bitterness. “Lots of slaves don’t even know what their powers are, or would have been.”

 

“Oh,” Mohinder said in a small voice. Obviously this had never occurred to him.

 

“Well, whether it’s working or not, it’s still dangerous,” Ando announced with a sideways glance at Hiro. “It made at least one person sick.”

 

“So the question is the same as it was: do the benefits outweigh the risks?” Hiro said. He looked around the room, seeing hope reflected on the faces of his comrades. “It sounds to me like they still do.”

 

“You want to keep taking the injections?” Ando asked incredulously.

 

“Why not?” Alai said, jumping to Hiro’s defense. “We knew there was a risk when we started.” He turned to Mohinder. “And out of all the people you gave the drug to, only one is sick? Sounds like pretty good odds to me.”

 

“And if it’s actually working…” Shelly began.

 

“Good odds?” Gabriel’s voice broke through the others’ talk, calm but with a backbone of barely suppressed anger. When they turned to him, he was already on his feet. “We can’t afford to lose even one of you. Hiro has said time and again that we don’t need special abilities to be heroes. Each of us has an important role to play in our mission, and if we lose even one because we thought we could beat the odds—.”

 

“That’s easy for you to say,” Matt snapped. “You still have your powers.”

 

Gabriel looked at Matt searchingly. “You’re right. I don’t know what I would do if I was in your position, Matt. It’s a hard choice. But for this mission to work, we need all of you.” He glanced quickly around the room, and his gaze settled on Alai. “Alai, your sharp-shooting skills will probably make the difference in whether we get out of this alive. I heard that Shelly and Fred are working on putting together better weapons, isn’t that right? Dean, we need you to deal with computer security. That’s what we’ve planned on, and that’s what we need to make this mission work. I don’t want any of you to kill yourselves with this drug because you thought you _needed_ your powers to be a part of this fight.”

 

The room was silent for a moment. “Thank you Gabriel,” Hiro said softly. He looked from Ando, who was watching him imploringly, to the members of his team, who looked variously chagrined, thoughtful, and relieved, to Mohinder, whose face was inscrutable. Then he turned back to Gabriel. “You’re right,” he said. “As much as I would like my powers, there are not enough of us to risk our lives for what is not essential.” He turned to Mohinder. “You think if we go back to taking Cure, we won’t be in any danger?”

 

“I think so,” Mohinder said. His voice sounded strangely hoarse. “You’ve only taken a week’s worth of the new treatment, and that will clear from your system soon if you stop taking it.”

 

“We’ll hope you’re right,” Hiro said wearily. Letting go of the hope of regaining his powers, he felt a further part of his old, optimistic self break off and drift away. He wondered if this is how it had been with Future Hiro, killing off his dreams one soul-numbing piece at a time.  


* * *

 

 

The book on the table had moved. One moment it had been too far away to reach, the next moment it was in Peter’s hand. It hadn’t flown to him, it had simply _appeared_ where he wanted it. Peter’s eyes darted to the door automatically before he remembered that Nathan wasn’t here. He’d run down to DC again, reluctantly, promising to spend more time with Peter soon. He wouldn’t be charging through the door demanding to know what Peter was doing.

 

Peter set the book down and tried to call it to hand a second time. Nothing happened. He tried other abilities one by one as he thought of them. Invisibility: nothing. Phasing: nothing. Super strength, mind reading, induced radioactivity: nothing, nothing, nothing. Then Peter pictured Nathan in his mind and tried to fly. Immediately he found himself hovering three feet above the floor.

 

Peter lowered himself down gently and tried it a second time: he hovered. Suresh’s treatments were working. He didn’t have all his power back yet, but it would come in time. He could be whole again.  


* * *

 

Nathan swore that the papers on his desk in the Capital Building multiplied in his absence. He had a staff that took care of most of the paperwork, of course, but there were certain things that required his personal attention. He’d been ignoring those things since Peter came home, and he couldn’t put them off any longer. The last thing he wanted was people asking questions. No, scratch that. The last thing he wanted was to be here doing paperwork while his brother remained in Westchester. He sighed and flipped through the minutes of a House steering committee meeting he’d missed yesterday. Right. Big fundraiser coming up next weekend. He’d have to think up a good excuse to get out of that one.

 

“Mister Speaker, Noah Bennet is here to see you,” the secretary’s voice chirped from the intercom on the desk.

 

What was her name? Gwen? Gabby? She must be new, otherwise she would have known he didn’t want to talk to anyone, most especially Noah Bennet. He felt a flicker of irritation at having to leave Mandy in Westchester, but someone had to look after Peter while he was gone. Nathan rubbed his temples, feeling a stress headache building. “Send him in,” he said resignedly.

 

Bennet charged into the room, closing the door behind him with an almost-slam, and planted himself in front of Nathan’s desk. “Do you think I’m a complete idiot?” he asked without preamble.

 

“What do you want, Bennet?” Nathan asked, putting aside his papers.

 

“The only reason you’re here and not in slavery is because I allow it,” Bennet growled. “If I told anyone what you are—.”

 

“Then I’d tell them about Claire,” Nathan said coolly. “So it’s a stalemate, just like it’s always been.” He leaned back in his chair casually, knowing it would irritate Bennet. “What did you want to talk about?”

 

“D.L. Hawkins.”

 

“I don’t even know who that is,” Nathan said, waving a hand dismissively.

 

“Husband of Niki Sanders,” Bennet ground out between clenched teeth.

 

“Oh. That D.L. Hawkins.” Nathan remembered the man very vaguely. “What about him?”

 

“My people picked him up five days ago. And you know what? He still had his powers.” If Bennet clenched his teeth any harder, he’d probably need a visit to the Congressional dentist office.

 

“That’s interesting. How’d you mess that up?” Nathan asked dispassionately. Enforcement of The Linderman Solution was not his problem, after all, and he preferred not to think too hard about the details of its execution, especially when it came to people he used to know.

 

“Don’t play with me, Nathan. What do you know about his terrorist group? About Niki Sanders’ group? Any of it?” Bennet demanded, leaning across the desk as if he wanted to grab Nathan and shake him.

 

Nathan didn’t bother to hide his disgust. “Isn’t this your job? I’ve got a Congress to run.” He picked up the top folder from the stack closest to his hand.

 

Bennet snatched the folder out of Nathan’s hand and threw it back on the pile so he could continue his interrogation. “Where were you earlier this week? You weren’t in your office.”

 

If Bennet wanted to throw a fit, fine. Nathan didn’t feel like a shouting match: his headache was getting worse. “In Westchester, avoiding people like you so I could get my work done,” he said smoothly, leaning back in his chair again.

 

“Nathan, if you know anything…” Bennet seemed to struggle for a moment, then said, “We think they’re planning something big. And soon.”

 

“Again, how is this my problem?”

 

Bennet’s eyes grew hard and calculating behind his glasses. “So help me, Nathan Petrelli, if you’re hiding something from me, I will find a way to bring you down.”

 

“I’ll take that under advisement,” Nathan said. “Is that all?”

 

Bennet just snorted angrily and started out.

 

“Thanks for stopping by,” Nathan said pleasantly to Bennet’s retreating back.  


* * *


	10. Chapter 10

The Haitian wasn’t particularly surprised when Bennet stormed into the observation room outside D.L. Hawkin’s cell. Dealing with Nathan Petrelli always put Bennet in a sour mood. Not that the Haitian blamed him. Bennet had often said how unfortunate it was that Nathan knew about Claire, could always hold that over them. But the Haitian couldn’t use his powers to take the memory of Claire away from Nathan: he’d had an agreement with Angela Petrelli that he wasn’t prepared to violate. So Bennet would have to deal with an intractable Nathan, and the Haitian would have to deal with a frustrated Bennet. For now.

 

“Any new developments?” Bennet asked, staring into the dimly-lit cell beyond the glass, where D.L. Hawkins lay unconscious on an examination table.

 

The Haitian shook his head. Something had occurred to him in Bennet’s absence, while he’d had time to think, but there was no point in giving Bennet any suggestions. He would come to the idea soon enough on his own. And if he didn’t, well… The Haitian knew how to be patient.

 

“Why would he keep holding out?” Bennet muttered, half to himself. “It’s been six days, and we don’t know any more than what we knew already.”

 

The Haitian raised his eyebrows significantly. Bennet considered him a moment.

 

“I see. Maybe his silence itself tells us something…”

 

The Haitian nodded in satisfaction and turned back to the glass. Bennet was on the right track.

 

“What could be so important to Hawkins that he would hold out for this long?” Bennet mused.

 

The Haitian watched Bennet carefully, waiting for him to put it together.

 

“Of course.” Bennet punched some numbers into the phone on the wall. “Put a team together. We’re going to Philadelphia.”  


* * *

 

Nathan lay on his back staring into the semi-darkness, waiting for his brain to de-liquefy. He had only been home an hour or so, but he’d gone right to Peter’s room. Surprisingly, there had been no guilt-inducing glares, no long discussion on why Nathan had been gone two days. Instead, Peter had provided Nathan a suitable welcome back party. They’d made it to the bed this time, and now they lay in a tangle of sheets and sweaty limbs. Incapable of coherent thought for the time being, Nathan lay still, letting his breathing return to normal.

 

Before long, Peter broke the silence. “Nathan?”

 

Nathan heaved an internal sigh. He knew he couldn’t have escaped a serious conversation entirely. “Ungh?” he half-grunted.

 

“Now that you’ve got me, what are you going to do with me?”

 

“I just did it,” Nathan muttered into the pillow.

 

“Not that,” Peter replied, and a smile flickered briefly across his face. “I mean, what do you expect me to do?”

 

Nathan grunted. He really didn’t want to be having this conversation.

 

“Do you expect me to stay in this room forever? I’m not even hurt anymore.”

 

Instead of replying, Nathan rolled over, ran his hand down Peter’s side, noting that he was still too skinny, and pushed against the place where he’d feared the rib was broken. There was no gasp of pain, and when Nathan took the time to look, there was no bruise. He sat up and looked closer: Peter had no bruises at all, and the cuts that had been angry red marks two days ago were faded to nearly-invisible white lines.

 

“Didn’t this used to hurt?” Nathan asked, pressing again at the rib that had given easily the last time he’d checked.

 

“No. I told you I’m fine.”

 

Nathan sat up and looked suspiciously at Peter’s nearly-unmarked body, and then back to his face, which was unreadable for once.

 

“You’ve been gone,” Peter said by way of explanation.

 

“So now that you’re not injured, you just want to walk out of here, is that it? Go for a stroll, maybe take in a show,” Nathan suggested dryly. “You _can’t_ , Peter. You’re a slave, and if you leave here, you’ll be a fugitive slave. I’m not even supposed to know where you are. If they find out you’re with me, it would be bad for both of us.”

 

“What do you want me to do, then?” Peter asked. He seemed not to have taken offense at Nathan’s tone. Peter was being entirely reasonable; it seemed too good to be true.

 

“I’m working on it,” Nathan said warily. “I have to pull some strings, spread some money around, but I can get you a new identity. In the meantime, you have to be patient.”

 

Peter pushed himself up to lean against the headboard and looked at Nathan expectantly. “Once I have this new identity, then what?”

 

“Why are you so concerned about this all of a sudden? I’m going to take care of you, Peter, you know that.” Nathan put a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “You’ll be safe here at the estate.”

 

“You expect me to stay here, then?” Peter asked. His tone was neutral, but Nathan could tell the question was loaded.

 

“Where else would you go?” he asked in surprise.

 

Nathan caught the flicker of annoyance on Peter’s face. “I hear Las Vegas is nice this time of year.”

 

“Las Vegas worked out so well last time,” Nathan snapped before he could stop himself. Usually arguing with Peter was like trying to pull a mule up a hill; you had to apply as much force as possible. This was like fighting fog. As hard as Nathan fought, his efforts did nothing to move Peter; he seemed to absorb unfeelingly whatever Nathan threw at him. It was disconcerting, and it was starting to piss Nathan off. “Last time I trusted you to take care of yourself, it didn’t work out so well.”

 

“Don’t worry about last time,” Peter said calmly and brushed his forehead to tuck back hair that wasn’t there. “What are you planning to do with me this time?”

 

“I need you to stay here so I can keep an eye on you,” Nathan explained, making an effort to keep his voice level. “So I know you’ll be safe when I come back.”

 

“You want me to stay here and wait for you,” Peter said slowly, as if making sure he’d understood correctly.

 

“Yes,” Nathan said, exasperated.

 

“If that’s what you want, then I’m just an expensive pet, a pretty toy for you, the same way I was for Sydney Harrington.”

 

Nathan flinched as if he’d been slapped. Peter hadn’t raised his voice, he’d just said what he’d said casually, carelessly; it sounded as if it were an incontrovertible and unsurprising fact Peter had discovered long ago. “It’s not that, Peter,” Nathan said, and it took all of his self-control to drop each word carefully rather than throw them at his brother. “I’m trying to do what’s best for you.”

 

“No, Nathan. You’re trying to do what’s best for you,” Peter corrected, still not raising his voice. “I get that. I was just asking.”

 

Peter should not be saying such things so calmly. Peter should be raging against him: charging out of the room, telling Nathan he didn’t understand, stamping his foot petulantly. Something. Something other than this passive acceptance. There had never been a time when Peter didn’t argue passionately against everything Nathan said. It meant that Peter cared, that he wanted Nathan to see his side. Now, it was as if it no longer mattered to Peter what Nathan said or did, or what was said or done to him. “How long are you staying?” Peter asked abruptly.

 

Apparently Peter was done with this topic, and although Nathan was not done, not by a long shot, he wasn’t sure if he could win an argument with Peter now that Peter wasn’t fighting back. He decided, reluctantly, to take the coward’s way out and let Peter change the subject. “I have to go back to DC tonight,” Nathan muttered.

 

“Why?”

 

Nathan climbed out of bed and began gathering his clothes from the floor. “Business,” he said over his shoulder.

 

“You won’t tell me?” Peter asked, raising a curious eyebrow.

 

“Boring Congress stuff.”

 

“Boring,” Peter repeated. “Nothing the slave needs to know about.”

 

Nathan didn’t look up from getting dressed. Now that he understood Peter’s game, he was prepared; it was time to fight indifference with indifference. “You never cared about politics before, Pete. It is boring, but it should only take a day.”

 

“Maybe I’ll be gone when you get back,” Peter said offhandedly.

 

“You’re not going to leave, Peter.” Nathan tossed the words over his shoulder casually, as if sure of their veracity. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Peter shrug. He really should let it go, but Peter had wounded him, just a little. Peter used to think his big brother hung the moon, and now it seemed that he expected nothing but manipulation from Nathan. Maybe it hurt because Nathan knew Peter’s expectations might be justified.

 

He walked over to Peter’s side of the bed and pressed a kiss to his brother’s forehead. “You’ll be here when I get back, and we can talk about what we will do next. Together,” he said gently. Nathan had little experience in expressing a sincere wish simply, least of all when it came to Peter. “Together, all right Peter?”

 

Peter nodded reluctantly, and Nathan nodded back in satisfaction. Peter would do what he said, at least until Nathan came back and convinced him that staying long-term was in his best interest. And he would convince him. He had to believe that this time he could make Peter understand.  


* * *

 

Micah Sanders leaned casually against the wall with one hand on the security control panel, explaining to the surveillance system what he wanted it to do for the next hour or so. It only took a few seconds, and then he was able to trot down the hall to the staff wing without a second glance at the cameras, perched in the corner of each hallway like gargoyles. The surveillance system was no problem for Micah, although he knew he could get in big trouble for using his power outside of the classroom. He didn’t want to get kicked out of the program, but he was certain this was worth the risk. He was running out of time here, anyway.

 

At fourteen, Micah was at a dangerous age. Next year, the director of the program would have to decide whether Micah was loyal enough to keep his powers and use them for the good of the country, or if he would have his powers taken away and be sent into slavery. Neither choice was very appealing to Micah. Not having much to lose was a good motivator, he’d found. Today, when he’d seen the barest chance to do this, even a small hope of success was enough to shoot for.

 

Micah found the room he was looking for in the first hallway. He took another look over his shoulder before trying the handle on the door; it was locked the old fashioned way. He reached in his pocket for a little brass tool: a girl in his class who shaped metal had made it for him so he could go anywhere in the building. A gentle turn of the tool in the keyhole, and the door swung open. He slipped into the room, the teacher’s lounge, and locked the door behind him.

 

There was one computer on a little desk on the far side of the room; Micah made a b-line for it. He typed a name into the search box and pressed enter. When the password prompt came up, he simply put his hand on the computer and told it to skip that part. Within seconds, the results of the search flashed on the screen: third floor, room 314.

 

This morning he’d accessed a map of the building, so he knew where the room was, and he quickly planned a route that wouldn’t take him past any of the security stations. The place was eerily quiet, and he saw no one at all as he made his way upstairs. The third floor, like every floor in this god-forsaken facility, was a labyrinth of hallways with metal doors at regular intervals, each one alike and identifiable only by the number painted next to it on the wall. Room 314 was in the middle of a hallway on the north side of the building.

 

Momentarily, Micah wished for his dad’s power so he could walk through the door or his mom’s power so he could rip it off its hinges: it would be nice to make a dramatic, impressive entrance. Instead, he placed his hand on the electronic keypad, and the door clicked open.

 

There was a light on inside the tiny cell of a room, a bedside lamp over the bunk where a brown-haired girl sat reading. She looked up at him in surprise. “Micah?”

 

“Hi Molly,” he said, and found himself unable to suppress a grin. “I’m getting you out.”

 

Molly squealed in joy, then clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle it, looking around nervously as she stood up and joined him in the doorway. “Micah, you could get in serious trouble for this,” she whispered.

 

“It’s worth it,” he said, still grinning.

 

Suddenly, the bedside lamp went out, as did the fluorescents in the hallway, and they were bathed in the glow of red emergency lights. Molly reached out for Micah’s hand. “Did you do that?” she asked in a whisper.

 

“No,” he said slowly.

 

Then the siren went off: a painfully loud mechanical wail repeating and repeating. They both stood frozen for a moment, listening. Faint sounds of gunfire echoed down the hallway.

 

“I think it’s time to go,” said Molly. She and Micah took off side by side, heading away from the gunfire.

 

“There’s an elevator up ahead that goes to the kitchen,” Micah called as they ran. “We can get out that way.”

 

Suddenly, shots rang out in front of them, and then a body came flying around the corner. It hit the wall with a sickening crunch and slid lifelessly to the ground. The next instant, a man skidded to a stop in the middle of the hall, sparing a glance at the body before he noticed Micah and Molly.

 

“The boogeyman,” Molly whispered, and grabbed Micah’s hand in a painful grip.

 

“Come on,” Micah shouted, and pulled her back down the hallway the way they’d come, both running at top speed.

 

“Don’t run!” Sylar called after them. “Don’t go that way!”

 

Micah and Molly didn’t slow down until they turned a corner about fifty yards down the hall. Micah palmed the electronic keypad on a stairwell and pushed open the door. Molly followed him down the stairs, their clattering footsteps echoing eerily in the silence between siren blasts.

 

They burst out of the stairwell on the first floor, and Micah saw with relief that there was no one at the security station here. There were, however, two people heading toward them. Molly started to pull Micah in the opposite direction, but something made Micah pause.

 

“Micah!” Someone shouting his name broke through the siren’s bleating. He looked back to see one of the adults down the hall, a tall Japanese man, waving his arms frantically. “This way!”

 

Micah squinted through the near darkness, and realized with a start that he recognized the man from long ago: a collision on the road when he and his father were on the run. “Come on,” he told Molly. “That’s one of the good guys.”

 

Micah and Molly ran to meet the duo: both men were all in black. Each held a gun, but they were pointed away from the approaching children. Micah was relieved to see that neither of them wore the uniforms of Homeland Security or building guards.

 

Molly gasped as they got within a few feet. “Officer Parkman?” she said, astonished.

 

A round-faced man smiled at her. “Hi Molly,” he said. “You ready to go?” She nodded vigorously, her face beaming.

 

“I know you, don’t I?” Micah asked the Japanese man.

 

“Ando,” said the man. “I’m a friend of your father’s.” He put out his hand and Micah shook it, surprised to be treated like an equal for once. “We didn’t expect you to be quite so helpful,” Ando said with a rueful grin. “Looks like we’ll be out of here quicker than we thought.” He reached for a walkie-talkie at his belt. “Objectives four and five accomplished. Begin phase two.”

 

As he finished this last, the sound of gunfire came again, much closer.

 

“Time to go,” said Officer Parkman. “Before we get any more company.”

 

“Officer Parkman, the boogeyman—Sylar—he’s upstairs,” Molly said frantically. “We saw him—.”

 

“Molly, it’s okay. He’s… He’s helping us,” Matt explained haltingly.

 

As if Molly’s words had summoned him, Sylar burst out of the stairwell door Molly and Micah had just come from, accompanied by the fading sound of screams. “Get going!” he shouted.

 

Ando and Officer Parkman looked around for an exit, and Micah darted behind the security station desk, pressing his hand urgently against the control panel, willing the emergency exit doors in the middle of the hall to unlock. They swung open noiselessly. “There! That’s a way out!” Micah shouted as he rushed back to Molly’s side.

 

As the words left his mouth, they were drowned out by surprised shouting. Fire doors at the end of the hallway had opened when the exit doors had, and facing Micah and the others was a group of Homeland Security troops, guns raised, not twenty feet away. “Hold it right there!”

 

“Move,” Sylar screamed from behind them. Everyone moved, Ando and Officer Parkman pulling Molly and Micah behind them to the emergency doors. Micah heard the mechanical clatter of automatic weapons fire, but when he looked, the bullets had hit some sort of invisible barrier and stuck in mid-air a few feet away. He whirled around to see Sylar holding a hand up toward the still-firing DHS troopers, a look of fierce concentration on his face, while behind him, a soldier raised a stun gun.

 

“Look out!” Micah screamed, and then he could see no more as Ando dragged him through the doors.  


* * *

 

It was hard enough to concentrate on holding the telekinetic shield while the shrieks of that damn siren burned into his brain like needles, so it wasn’t surprising that Gabriel didn’t hear anyone approach. The snap and sizzle of a stun gun firing was unmistakable, though: he registered the sound at the same time he tuned in to the galloping heartbeat of an attacker behind him. In that instant, he realized with a sinking feeling that it was already too close; there was no time to stop it.

 

Then, incredibly, Gabriel was out of the way, two feet down the hall from where he’d stood. Hiro, who had been nowhere in sight, had somehow pushed him out of the path of the stun gun, and was now pulling Takezo Kensei’s sword free of the guard who had snuck up behind Gabriel.

 

“It worked!” Hiro cried as he turned around. Could it be that Hiro’s powers were returning? If he had slowed time or teleported to save Gabriel from that stun dart, then—.

 

“Come on!” Hiro yelled in his ear. Gabriel threw a hand up toward the regrouping soldiers, bowling them over into a heap, and followed Hiro toward the doors where the others had retreated.

 

Abruptly, the blaring siren that had been shredding Gabriel’s concentration ceased, and the hall was eerily quiet, except for the groans of the recovering soldiers. In the sudden silence, two men appeared in the stairwell door: Bennet and the Haitian.

 

It took Gabriel a moment to realize what that feeling was in his chest, just below his heart: it was fear. He hadn’t felt it in a long time, but once he’d named it, the feeling started to grow. He glanced at Hiro, who stood beside him, his jaw set in grim determination, holding his sword at the ready. Gabriel swallowed hard as he made his decision; Hiro had to make it out of this.

 

Usually Gabriel tried not to flaunt the results of Charlie’s ability when he was with Hiro, but sometimes, like now, he made an exception for impending death. He switched to Japanese. “Go on, Hiro. I’ll be right behind you,” he said quickly as Bennet and the Haitian came closer, seemingly unhurried. Hiro looked as if he was about to protest, but Gabriel cut him off. “They need you. Go.” Hiro raised his sword. In two steps, Gabriel was beside Hiro, grabbing him by the shoulder. “Run, or I will throw you out of here,” Gabriel growled, and reinforced the command with a none-to-gentle telekinetic shove. Hiro stumbled back a few steps, looking surprised, but when he saw the determined set of Gabriel’s face, he took two tentative steps back, then turned and fled.

 

Gabriel whirled back to the stairwell, where Bennet had raised his gun and the Haitian watched warily. Behind him, the sound of Hiro running down the hallway to the rendezvous point quelled some of his fear.

 

“I’m surprised to see you here, Sylar,” Bennet said casually.

 

“Shouldn’t be,” Gabriel replied, allowing the silky menace of a killer to slip into his voice. “All these delicious powers locked up together and ripe for the picking. It’s like a nicely wrapped box of chocolates.”

 

Disgust flickered across Bennet’s face, but he made no move to fire. The Haitian took a step forward, though, and Gabriel’s eyes flickered to him as he began to feel the uncomfortable numbness and sense of claustrophobia that came with the loss of his power. He’d experienced that terrible helplessness once before, of being cut off from his abilities, had nearly died because of it… But he hadn’t died. He’d survived it, and he would again. Now if only he knew what to do against the Haitian.

 

Gabriel regretted momentarily that he’d refused Ando’s offer of a gun, so confident that he’d never need one. Now, without his powers, he was weaponless. His mind went back to Matt’s ill-advised tackle several days ago, brave but stupid. It was worth a try. He gathered himself quickly and launched at the Haitian with a snarl. The Haitian had obviously not expected this; he fell to the ground. Sylar wrapped his hands around the man’s throat. He’d never killed anyone like this, with his bare hands, choking the life out of him. He wasn’t sure he even had the strength. But a human life was so delicate, he knew. His mother’s life—so delicate, so easily ended. He squeezed his fingers around the Haitian’s throat, feeling the windpipe give a little. It felt good.

 

Suddenly, there was a hand on the back of Gabriel’s shirt, pulling him up, breaking his grip, and he was thrown against the unyielding wall of the corridor. Bennet faced him, his expression a mask of rage, looking positively demonic in the red emergency lighting that was the corridor’s only illumination. Gabriel felt a stun dart sear into his chest, and then all was darkness.  


* * *


	11. Chapter 11

Hiro sprinted across the open lawn of the detention facility, stomach churning in mixed giddiness and terror. He’d stopped time; he’d used his power back there! He heard shouting right behind him, and realized that some of the soldiers must have gotten past Sylar and followed him. A quick look back confirmed that two Homeland Security goons were in pursuit. This was not the time to get lost in thought. He slid Kensei’s sword back into its sheath and kept running.

 

Sixty yards in front of him, Matt Parkman was bundling Molly and Micah into an SUV with Lara at the wheel. Ando had climbed into the communications van with Dean, and they were both looking back at him. Suddenly he heard the unmistakable swish-thunk of an impacting bullet, and he spared a glance behind him. One of the guards chasing him had dropped in his tracks. As he watched, there came another swish-thunk, and the second guard staggered backward before falling.

 

Hiro shook his head regretfully, but he gave a grateful wave toward the clump of trees at the top of a nearby ridge where he knew Alai was hidden with his sniper rifle. Alai would cover the exit until their vehicles were out of sight. It wasn’t Hiro’s first choice for a way to prevent pursuit, but with Gabriel detained inside and D.L. gone, it would have to do.

 

Ando held the door of the van open, and Hiro jumped inside. Ando and Dean were both focused on the building, expectant. Hiro collapsed onto the floor of the van, panting. “Gabriel?” Ando asked urgently. Hiro shook his head. Ando swore under his breath in Japanese and stepped out of the van.

 

Hiro grabbed his arm and gave another shake of his head. “Bennett and the Haitian. They’re inside,” he gasped out.

 

Ando swore again, and Dean said, “We have to go back.”

 

“No,” Hiro said firmly. “He’s buying us time. Micah and Molly—we have to get them out.”

 

“But—,” Dean began.

 

Ando cut him off. “If Gabriel can’t beat them, what chance do we have?” The three looked at each other in silence.

 

Suddenly static crackled over the radio, and Ando started as if he’d just remembered the walkie-talkie was there. He pulled it to his mouth slowly. “Mission accomplished. Bravo team is out. Give the signal to evacuate.”

 

Several answers of “Roger,” came through, and Hiro knew that identical vans and SUVs were heading out from different parts of the grounds, giving any pursuers multiple targets to track. With luck, and with a little help from Lara’s ability, the SUV with Molly and Micah wouldn’t be followed.

 

Dean gave one more muttered curse as he started the van, then pulled out with one last regretful backward glance at the building.

 

Hiro pulled himself up to lean against the side of the van as he caught his breath. “They must have known we were coming,” he said after a moment. “They had no reason to be here… We were almost out.”

 

“We knew it was possible,” Ando pointed out. “Who knows what they got out of D.L.?”

 

With a quick glance at Dean, Hiro switched to Japanese. “We shouldn’t have come,” he said miserably. “Gabriel…”

 

“He knew what he was getting into,” Ando said, putting a hand on Hiro’s shoulder. “He made his choice.”

 

Now Hiro was staring straight ahead. “If I could have helped him…”

 

“This is not your fault. We have a mission to complete, and Gabriel knew—knows that. And you’re forgetting one important thing.”

 

“What?” Hiro asked miserably.

 

“We got what we came for,” Ando said grimly. “It wasn’t all for nothing.”

 

“Yes…” Hiro nodded determinedly. “That’s something.”  


* * *

 

Nora’s head felt fuzzy. When she opened her eyes, the light seemed brighter than it should be, and then she realized that she wasn’t in her room in the staff dormitory on the Petrelli estate. She wasn’t sure where she was, but it wasn’t there. As her eyes adjusted, she took in the blank concrete walls of the small room, the smell of disinfectant, and the hissing and beeping of medical equipment. She was in a hospital.

 

The door was closed, and the room’s small window showed only a patch of grey sky. Nora sat up, pleased to find that she could, and propped herself up against the wooden headboard. She had no idea how long she’d been here, or even how she’d gotten here. The last thing she remembered was her conversation with Jordan in the back parlor. Someone had put her in a hospital gown and re-braided her hair, she noticed. That meant she wasn’t being punished, at least. They—whoever they were—were taking care of her.

 

A knock at the door caused Nora to jump, but she said, “Come in” automatically.

 

Jordan poked his head in the room, smiling when he saw Nora. “You’re awake!” he said happily. He shut the door behind him before heading to the bed and presenting Nora with a single red rose. “The nurse said you hadn’t woken up yet, and that I should let you sleep. But I thought it couldn’t hurt to check.”

 

“Thank you,” Nora said, taking the rose with a smile. “What are you doing here?”

 

“I convinced the cook to do without me for the morning. She’s worried about you too, you know. So here I am. Oh, right.” Jordan fumbled in his pocket and came out with a crumpled greeting card. Nora was delighted to see it contained get well wishes from the rest of the staff.

 

She set the card and the rose on the little bedside table and smiled shyly up at Jordan. “Thank you,” she said again. “It’s nice to see a familiar face.”

 

“So how are you feeling?” Jordan asked. “I mean, no one knew what was wrong with you.”

 

“I don’t know myself,” Nora said. “I just… I’ve been feeling strange. I don’t know why I passed out. The masters aren’t mad, are they?”

 

Jordan shook his head. “I don’t think so. Just worried.” He lowered his voice. “Polly said that Doctor Suresh himself was coming to have a look at you.”

 

Nora’s eyes widened, and Jordan seemed to catch the expression on her face. Suddenly, he said, “Nora, watch this.” He fixed his attention past Nora on the bedside table.

 

Nora frowned, unsure what she was supposed to be watching. “What?”

 

“Shhh,” he said, and returned his focus to the table. Nora turned her head to see what he was looking at. There was nothing much there: a glass of water, the get-well card, and the rose Jordan had just brought her. She looked back at Jordan: he was concentrating so hard that beads of sweat were standing out on his forehead.

 

Suddenly, with a small popping sound, the rose was in Jordan’s hand, and he was presenting it to her for the second time in five minutes. “How did you do that?” she asked in amazement as she took the rose again.

 

“I used to be able to,” Jordan said excitedly. “Before I became a slave. But of course, with Cure, I couldn’t.”

 

“Did you stop taking your pills?” Nora asked with a worried frown. If he had, he should be dead. Even if for some reason he wasn’t sick yet, he surely would be. It was dangerous to mess around with skipping Cure doses.

 

“No, that’s the thing,” he assured her. “Nora, Doctor Suresh came to me—.”

 

“Did he give you an injection?” Nora broke in. She had an answer in Jordan’s startled look. “He gave me injections, too. Afterwards, I started having trouble breathing, but I didn’t want to tell him.”

 

“Nora, why?”

 

“I was afraid he’d get me in trouble if I told him the drug wasn’t working right,” she said softly.

 

“Oh.” Jordan clearly hadn’t thought of this, but he saw the wisdom in it. “Well,” he said slowly. “Maybe it is working right.”

 

“It’s supposed to make me pass out?” Nora asked doubtfully.

 

“No. I mean…” Jordan glanced toward the door and lowered his voice. “Maybe it has something to do with your ability.”

 

“Jordan, how could it? I’m taking Cure again,” she said in exasperation. “I have been for weeks, since he stopped the injections.”

 

“So am I, but I can still use my ability,” Jordan shot back.

 

“I don’t understand.”

 

Jordan grew thoughtful, and his gaze strayed to the rose in Nora’s hand. “Maybe it’s like a vaccine. If you—.”

 

Both slaves froze as the door opened, admitting Mohinder Suresh, who was studying a clipboard intently. When he looked up, his eyes widened in surprise. “Jordan, I didn’t know you’d be here.”

 

“They told me to bring some of Nora’s things,” he said quickly, and pointed to a bag he’d dropped just inside the door. He looked nervously from Nora to Suresh and went on. “I just stopped to talk a moment, not long. I’d better get back, anyway. Feel better, Nora. Doctor Suresh.” He scurried out, giving Nora an encouraging, if weak, smile before he closed the door.

 

Still studying the chart, Doctor Suresh asked, “How are you feeling, Nora?”

 

“Better, thank you,” she said, not meeting his eyes. If his injections had really made her sick, or had given Jordan back his ability, they must have been more important than Suresh had let on. She had to be careful to tell him what he wanted to hear.

 

Finally, Doctor Suresh looked up from his clipboard and studied Nora. “Let’s start with you telling me everything you can remember about these symptoms, shall we?”  


* * *

 

The phone woke Nathan, the chipper chirping ring tone that meant a call from Mandy. The apartment was totally dark, so it took Nathan several moments to extricate himself from the covers and fumble for the phone on the dresser. Good thing he kept hardly anything personal in this place; he hated to have distractions while Congress was in session. It was much easier to locate the phone without having to paw past a bunch of picture frames. “What?” he snapped when he finally answered.

 

“Mister Petrelli, I have some bad news.” On the other side of the phone, Mandy was practically crying. That wasn’t a good sign.

 

“What is it, Mandy?” Nathan asked tersely.

 

“There’s been an accident,” Mandy sniffed.

 

Peter. Oh God. “In Westchester?”

 

“No, sir, it’s—.”

 

The kids. Heidi. “In Hyde Park?”

 

“No, sir, it’s the President.”

 

“The President,” Nathan repeated slowly.

 

“There was a terrorist attack at the Democratic fundraiser in Greensboro,” Mandy explained. “They’re saying it was a group of evolved humans. The President is dead.”

 

Dead. The word rung inside Nathan like a bell. “The Vice President?” he heard himself ask.

 

“In the hospital. He’s touch and go,”’ Mandy reported tearfully. “The Chief of Staff wants you at the White House as soon as possible.”

 

Nathan closed his eyes. This couldn’t be worse timing. Nathan couldn’t say it hadn’t occurred to him that if the President and the Vice President were both tragically killed, for instance, that Nathan would have exactly what he wanted. Ma had gone to an awful lot of trouble to put Nathan third in line for the presidency. Since Ma had died, however, Nathan wasn’t sure the presidency was what he wanted at all. But he’d known, hadn’t he, that this—that something like this would happen eventually. Isaac Mendez’s paintings always came true. Even when he tried to change them, they happened, in some form or another. But now, when he was finally making progress with Peter… “Have them get my car,” Nathan said. “I’ll be ready in twenty minutes.”  


* * *

 

Ando pulled the collar of his coat up against the wind and looked around the platform nervously. The train would be leaving in five minutes, and Hiro wasn’t back yet. Ando sighed in irritation. It was too bad they’d split up from the others: Hiro never gave anyone else this much trouble. Of course, the whole team couldn’t go back to the apartment at once. There needed to be changing of cars, diversions, splitting up, backtracking and so on to make sure that no one was followed. Ando, Hiro, and Dean had ditched the van here in Trenton. Dean had rented a U-Haul and would be picking up Shelly and Alai in Newark. Meanwhile, Ando and Hiro had bought Amtrak tickets to Hoboken, but if Hiro didn’t get back from the restroom soon, they’d be forced to use more of their dwindling funds to get back to New York some other way.

 

Suddenly, Ando caught sight of Hiro hurrying toward him through the crowd with an enormous grin on his face. Ando felt a stab of annoyance. “Come on,” he said when Hiro was close enough. “You almost missed the train.”

 

Hiro, still grinning, waved a dismissive hand in the direction of the waiting train. “Forget about that,” he said. “I have something to show you.”

 

It was then Ando noticed that in addition to the long duffel bag where the Kensei sword was concealed, Hiro had also slung across his back a black tube of the sort used to carry paintings. Ando stared. “Where did you get that?” he asked incredulously.

 

“Come on,” Hiro said, and pulled Ando through the crowd onto the train. It was the first train of the morning, and since it was Saturday, it wasn’t too crowded: Ando and Hiro had a four-person compartment to themselves.

 

“Hiro! What _is_ that?” Ando asked as soon as they were seated, and Hiro had pulled the case off his shoulder.

 

“Guess,” Hiro said with a mischievous grin as he pulled a canvas out of the case.

 

“Is this _The_ Painting?” Ando asked in awe.

 

Hiro nodded.

 

“Where did you…? You hid it in an Amtrak station in New Jersey?” he asked, confused.

 

Hiro frowned at him. “Of course not. I hid it… somewhere else. Ando, listen.” Hiro looked around cautiously, then switched to Japanese. “I stopped time. In there, when we were fighting.”

 

“You what?” Ando squeaked. He took a quick look toward the door of the compartment, and lowered his voice. “What?”

 

“Not for long. Just long enough, really. But I did it. My powers are coming back.”

 

“But… What about…? I thought you were…” Ando fumbled.

 

“It’s destiny,” Hiro said firmly. “I’m not going to question it. When we got here, I knew I had to try to get this.” He waved the canvas in his hand.

 

“You teleported somewhere?”

 

Hiro nodded excitedly. “I put it away for safekeeping and then…” He frowned momentarily. “Then I couldn’t get it back. Until now.” His smile returned. “Want to see it?”

 

Ando nodded, his head still reeling. The painting. _The_ painting that Hiro had followed like a star for the past four years. He almost thought he shouldn’t look at it. Almost.

 

Hiro slid onto the floor so that he could lay the canvas out on a seat. It wasn’t huge: it was about the same size as the painting of Hiro and the dinosaur, and Ando recognized the same slick comic book style he’d come to associate with Isaac Mendez. The edges of the painting were uneven on one side, and when Ando looked closer, he could see that they’d been charred. In fact, a section of the upper right corner had been burned away, obliterating part of the image.

 

“Well?” Hiro said after a moment.

 

“That’s Matt Parkman,” Ando said, pointing him out in the painting. Hiro nodded excitedly. “Mohinder. And there’s Micah and Molly. Who’s that?”

 

“The Petrellis,” Hiro said, pointing to them.

 

Ando cocked his head to the side and squinted. “I guess so,” he said. Then he noticed something strange. “Is that…?”

 

Hiro nodded, beaming. “Yes, that’s you!”

 

“Huh,” said Ando. He wasn’t sure if that was cause for celebration or not, so he kept examining the painting. “Who’s that?”

 

Here, Hiro faltered. “I’m not sure,” he confessed.

 

Ando turned his head to one side, then the other. “Maybe it’s you,” he suggested.

 

“Or maybe it’s Gabriel,” Hiro said casually.

 

Ando looked at him sharply. “Or maybe it’s Spock. Maybe it doesn’t matter at all.”

 

Hiro’s smile returned, and he began rolling up the painting to return to its case. “I have a feeling that we’ll figure it out when we get there,” he said, gently putting the painting away.

 

Ando sat on the seat where the painting had been, and Hiro sat next to him. They sat in silence for a moment. Ando considered what he’d seen, and the fact that, after all this time, Hiro had finally shared this with him. “Your powers are back?” he asked at last.

 

“I think so,” Hiro replied.

 

Ando mulled over that tidbit for another long moment. “Now that we have all these people,” he said slowly. “How do we get _that_ to happen?”

 

“I have no idea,” Hiro said brightly, staring out the window.

 

Ando followed his gaze outside where the bleak industrial landscape of south Jersey rushed by. “So I guess this is the hard part.”

 

“Yep,” Hiro agreed. “The hard part.”  


* * *

  



End file.
